NOR/\H      CLARY. 


E  Ferrett  h  Co  Publishers  Hall  101  Chestnut  St  Phil  add  phi; 


SKETCHES 


OF 


IEISH   CHAEACTEK. 


BY  MRS.  S.  C.  HALL 


ILLUSTRATED  EDITION. 


PHILADELPHIA : 
GEO.  S.  APPLETON,  148  CHESTNUT  STREET. 

1847. 


CONTENTS  AND  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


SUBJECTS.  ILLUSTRATIONS.  PAGE 

THE  WISE  THOUGHT Norah  Clarey - 5 

The  Lovers 5 

Bannow  Lasses 10 

ANNIE  LESLIE 11 

The  Rivals 15 

Alick  the  Traveller 30 

LARRY  MOORE 31 

Larry  lounging  on  the  Sea  Shore 33 

„  The  Promontory  of  Bag-an-Bun 36 

KATE  CONNER Kate's  arrival  in  London 37 

Kate  telling  her  Story 44 

CAPTAIN  ANDY The  Outlaw's  Burial 45 

The  Mill 56 

TAKE  IT  EASY The  Fairy  riding  the  Dragon-fly 57 

The  Vision  of  Alice 62 

LILLY  O'BRIAN Lilly  O'Brian 63 

Lilly's  Interview  with  the  Fisher 79  i 

The  Lilly  with  her  Blossoms 97 

PETER  THE  PROPHET Alice  Mulvaney 98 

The  Drowned  Lover 98 

The  Party  in  the  Green  Lane Ill 

JACK  THE  SHRIMP Neptune  rescuing  Crab 112 

Gravestones  in  Bannow  Church , 119 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  LINE. .  .Clavis  signing  the  Deed 12(1 

The  Duel 147 

WE'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT Philip  loitering  at  the  Gate 143 

The  Row  with  the  Steward 151 

THE  BANNOW  POSTMAN.. .  .The  Postman  and  his  Horse ]52 

The  Castle  of  Coolhull 171 

LUKE  O'BRIAN The  Castle  of  Enniscorthy 172 

Ferry  Carrig  Castle 177 

BLACK  DENNIS The  Home  Dispensary 178 

The  Castle  on  the  Moor 183 

MACGOHARTY'S  PETITION.. Mary  at  her  Daughter's  Grave 184 

The  Cross  in  the  Churchyard 193 

FATHER  MIKE The  Priest's  Warning 194 

Old  Bannow  Church . .  .215 


IV  CONTENTS  AND  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

SUBJECTS.  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

OLD  FRANK The  Rescue  from  the  Fairies 

The  Temple  at  Craige 


PAGE 
,.21G 
..225 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER.. Mary  Ryan's  Daughter 226 

The  Young  Turf-cutter 226 

The  Patient  Watcher 245 

WOOING  AND  WEDDING. . . . Mark  Conner  at  the  Cottage  Gate 24G 

The  Seven  Castles  of  Clonmines 263 

THE  FAIRY  OF  THE  FORTH .  Beckoning  up  the  Gauger 264 

The  Fairy  Bagpiper 271 

THE  RAPPAREE Freney's  Gallop 272 

The  Rescue 291 

GERALDINE The  Chapel  of  Our  Lady 292 

At  Prayers 295 

MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE Mabel's  Visit  to  Kate  Ryley 296 

The  Examination 317 

KELLY  THE  PIPER The  Pattern  Tent 318 

Chairing  the  Piper 333 

MASTER  BEN The  Schoolmaster 334 

The  Schoolmaster's  Cabin 341 

INDEPENDENCE The  Lecture  to  Shane  Thurlongh 342 

The  Neglected 349 

HOSPITALITY Finding  the  Win 350 

Congratulations 369 

GOOD  SPIRITS  AND  BAD ....  Bad  Spirits 370 

Good  Spirits 383 


THE  WISE  THOUGHT. 


HE  was  sitting  under  the  shadow  of  a  fragrant  lime 
tree,  that  overhung  a  very  ancient  well ;  and,  as  the 
water  fell  into  her  pitcher,  she  was  mingling  with  its 
music  the  tones  of  her  "  Jew's  harp," — the  only  in- 
strument upon  which  Norah  Clary  had  learned  to  play. 
She  was  a  merry  maiden  of  "  sweet  seventeen;"  a 
rustic  belle,  as  well  as  a  rustic  beauty,  and  a  "  terri- 
ble coquette ;"  and,  as  she  had  what,  in  Scotland,  they 
call  a  "  tocher," — in  England,  a  "  dowry,"  and  in  Ire- 
land, a  "  pretty  penny  o'  money,"  it  is  scarcely  ne- 
cessary to  state,  in  addition,  that  she  had — a  bachelor. 
Whether  the  tune — which  was  certainly  given  in  alto 
— was,  or  was  not,  designed  as  a  summons  to  her 
lover,  I  cannot  take  upon  myself  to  say ;  but  her  lips 
and  fingers  had  not  been  long  occupied,  before  her 
lover  was  at  her  side. 

"  We  may  as  well  give  it  up,  Morris  Donovan,"  she 


6  THE  WISE  THOUGHT. 

said,  somewhat  abruptly ;  "  look,  'twould  be  as  easy  to  twist  the  top  off  the  great 
hill  of  Howth,  as  make  father  and  mother  agree  about  any  one  thing.  They  've 
been  playing  the  rule  of  contrary  these  twenty  years ;  and  it 's  not  likely  they  '11 
take  a  turn  now." 

"  It 's  mighty  hard,  so  it  is,"  replied  handsome  Morris,  "  that  married  people 
can't  draw  together.  Norah,  darlint !  that  wouldn't  be  the  way  with  us.  It 's 
one  we  'd  be  in  heart  and  sowl,  and  an  example  of  love  and " 

"  Folly,"  interrupted  the  maiden,  laughing.  "  Morris,  Morris,  we  've  quarrelled 
a  score  o'  times  already ;  and  a  bit  of  a  breeze  makes  life  all  the  pleasanter. 
Shall  I  talk  about  the  merry  jig  I  danced  with  Phil  Kennedy,  or  repeat  what 
Mark  Doolen  said  of  me  to  Mary  Grey  ? — eh,  Morris  ?" 

The  long  black  lashes  of  Norah  Clary's  bright  brown  eyes  almost  touched 
her  low,  but  delicately  pencilled,  brows,  as  she  looked  archly  up  at  her  lover — 
her  lip  curled  with  a  half-playful,  half-malicious  smile ;  but  the  glance  was  soon 
withdrawn,  and  the  maiden's  cheek  glowed  with  a  deep  and  eloquent  blush,  when 
the  young  man  passed  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and,  pushing  the  curls  from  her 
forehead,  gazed  upon  her  with  a  loving,  but  mournful  look. 

"  Leave  joking,  now,  Norry ;  God  only  knows  how  I  love  you,"  he  said,  in 
a  voice  broken  by  emotion :  "  I  'm  yer  equal,  as  far  as  money  goes ;  and  no 
young  farmer  in  the  country  can  tell  a  better  stock  to  his  share  than  mine ;  yet 
1  don't  pretend  to  deserve  you,  for  all  that ;  only,  I  can't  help  saying  that,  when 
we  love  each  other  (now,  don't  go  to  contradict  me,  Norry,  because  ye  've  as 
good  as  owned  it  over  and  over  again),  and  yer  father  agreeable,  and  all,  to 
think  that  yer  mother,  just  out  of  divilment,  should  be  putting  betwixt  us,  for  no 
reason  upon  earth,  only  to  '  spite'  her  lawful  husband,  is  what  sets  me  mad 
entirely,  and  shows  her  to  be  a  good-for " 

"  Stop,  Mister  Morris,"  exclaimed  Norah,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  mouth,  so 
as  effectually  to  prevent  a  sound  escaping ;  "  it 's  my  mother  ye  're  talking  of, 
and  it  would  be  ill-blood,  as  well  as  ill-bred,  to  hear  a  word  said  against  an  own 
parent.  Is  that  the  pattern  of  yer  manners,  sir ;  or  did  ye  ever  hear  me  turn 
my  tongue  against  one  belonging  to  you  ?" 

"  I  ask  yer  pardon,  my  own  Norah,"  he  replied,  meekly,  as  in  duty  bound ; 
"  for  the  sake  o'  the  lamb,  we  spare  the  sheep.  Why  not  1 — and  I  'm  not  going 
to  gainsay  but  yer  mother " 

"  The  least  said  's  the  soonest  mended !"  again  interrupted  the  impatient  girl. 
"  Good  even,  Morris,  and  God  bless  ye ;  they  '11  be  after  missing  me  within,  and 
it 's  little  mother  thinks  where  I  am." 

"  Norah,  above  all  the  girls  at  wake  or  pattern,  I  've  been  true  to  you.  We 
have  grown  together,  and,  since  ye  were  the  height  of  a  rose-bush,  ye  have  been 
dearer  to  me  than  anything  else  on  earth.  Do,  Norah,  for  the  sake  of  our  young 
hearts'  love,  do  think  if  there  's  no  way  to  win  yer  mother  over.  If  ye  'd  take 
me  without  her  leave,  sure  it 's  nothing  I  'd  care  for  the  loss  o'  thousands,  let 
alone  what  ye  've  got.  Dearest  Norah,  think ;  since  you  '11  do  nothing  without 
her  consent,  do  think — for  once  be  serious,  and  don't  laugh." 


THE  WISE  THOUGHT.  7 

It  is  a  fact,  universally  known  and  credited  in  the  good  barony  of  Bargy 
that  Morris  Donovan  possessed  an  honest,  sincere,  and  affectionate  heart — brave 
as  a  lion,  and  gentle  as  a  dove  He  was,  moreover,  the  priest's  nephew, — un- 
derstood Latin  as  well  as  the  priest  himself;  and,  better  even  than  that,  he  was 
the  beau — the  Magnus  Apollo,  of  the  parish ;— a  fine,  noble-looking  fellow,  that 
all  the  girls  (from  the  housekeeper's  lovely  English  niece  at  Lord  Gort's,  down 
to  little  deaf  Bess  Mortican,  the  lame  dress-maker)  were  regularly  and  despe- 
rately in  love  with :  still,  I  must  confess,  he  was,  at  times,  a  little  stupid ; — not 
exactly  stupid  either,  but  slow  of  invention, — would  fight  his  way  out  of  a  thou- 
sand scrapes,  but  could  never  get  peaceably  out  of  one.  No  wonder,  then,  that, 
where  fighting  was  out  of  the  question,  he  was  puzzled,  and  looked  to  the  ready 
wit  of  the  merry  Norah  for  assistance.  It  was  not  very  extraordinary  that  he 
loved  the  fairy  creature  —  the  sweetest,  gayest,  of  all  Irish  girls ;  —  light  of 
heart,  light  of  foot,  light  of  eye ;  —  now  weeping  like  a  child  over  a  dead 
chicken,  or  a  plundered  nest;  then  dancing  on  the  top  of  a  hayrick,  to  the 
music  of  her  own  cheering  voice ; — now  coaxing  her  termagant  mother,  and 
anon  comforting  her  henpecked  father.  Let  no  one  suppose  that  I  have  over- 
drawn the  sketch  of  my  Bannow  lass — for,  although  her  native  barony  is  that 
of  Bargy,  the  two  may  be  considered  as  wedded  and  become  one.  The  por- 
traits appended  to  this  story  are,  at  least,  veritable,  and  "  from  the  life."  You 
will  encounter  such,  and  such  only,  in  our  district  —  neatly  attired,  with  their 
white  caps,  when  the  day  is  too  warm  for  bonnets — in  short,  altogether  "  well- 
dressed." 

"I'm  not  going  to  laugh,  Morris,"  replied  the  little  maid,  at  last,  after  a 
very  long  pause ;  "  I  've  got  a  wise  thought  in  my  head  for  once.  His  reve- 
rence, your  uncle,  you  say,  spoke  to  father — to  speak  to  mother  about  it? 
I  wonder  (and  he  a  priest)  that  he  hadn't  more  sense !  Sure,  mother  was  the 
man ; — but  I  've  got  a  wise  thought. — Good  night,  dear  Morris ;  good  night." 

The  lass  sprang  lightly  over  the  fence  into  her  own  garden,  leaving  her 
lover  perdu  at  the  other  side,  without  possessing  an  idea  of  what  her  "  wise 
thought"  might  be.  When  she  entered  the  kitchen,  matters  were  going  on 
as  usual — her  mother  bustling  in  style,  and  as  cross  "  as  a  bag  of  weasels." 

"  Jack  Clary,"  said  she,  addressing  herself  to  her  husband,  who  sat  quietly  in 
the  chimney-corner  smoking  his  doodeen  "  it's  well  ye've  got  a  wife  who  knows 
what's  what!  God  help  me,  I've  little  good  of  a  husband,  barring  the  name! 
Are  ye  sure  Black  Nell's  in  the  stable?"  The  sposo  nodded.  "The  cow 
and  the  calf,  had  they  fresh  straw  ?"  Another  nod.  "  Bad  cess  to  ye,  can't 
ye  use  yer  tongue,  and  answer  a  civil  question !"  continued  the  lady. 

"  My  dear,"  he  replied,  "  sure  one  like  you  has  enough  talk  for  ten." 

This  very  just  observation  was,  like  most  truths,  so  disagreeable,  that  a 
severe  storm  would  have  followed,  had  not  Norah  stepped  up  to  her  father, 
and  whispered  in  his  ear,  "  I  don't  think  the  stable-door  is  fastened." — Mrs. 
Clary  caught  the  sound,  and  in  no  gentle  terms,  ordered  her  husband  to  attend 


8  THE    WISE    THOUGHT. 

to  the  comforts  of  Black  Nell.  "I'll  go  with  father  myself  and  see,"  said 
Norah.  "That's  like  my  own  child,  always  careful,"  observed  the  mother,  as 
the  father  and  daughter  closed  the  door. 

"Dear  father,"  began  Norah,  "it  isn't  altogether  about  the  stable  I  wanted 
ye — but — but — the  priest  said  something  to  ye  to-day  about — Morris  Donovan." 

"  Yes,  darling,  and  about  yerself,  my  sweet  Norry." 

"  Did  ye  speak  to  mother  about  it  ?" 

"No,  darling,  she's  been  so  cross  all  day.  Sure,  I  go  through  a  dale  for 
pace  and  quietness.  If  I  was  like  other  men,  and  got  drunk  and  wasted,  it 
might  be  in  rason ;  but —  As  to  Morris,  she  was  very  fond  of  the  boy  till  she 
found  that  /  liked  him ;  and  then,  my  jewil,  she  turned  like  sour  milk  all  in 
a  minute. — I'm  afraid  even  the  priest '11  get  no  good  of  her." 

"  Father,  dear  father,"  said  Norah,  "  suppose  ye  were  to  say  nothing  about 
it,  good  or  bad,  and  just  pretend  to  take  a  sudden  dislike  to  Morris,  and  let 
the  priest  speak  to  her  himself,  she'd  come  round." 

"  Out  of  opposition  to  me,  eh  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  .let  her  gain  the  day,  then? — that  would  be  cowardly,"  replied  the 
farmer,  drawing  himself  up.  "  No,  I  won't" 

"Father,  dear,  you  don't  understand,"  said  the  cunning  lass  "sure,  ye 're 
for  Morris ;  and  when  we  are — that  is,  if — I  mean — suppose — father,  you 
know  what  I  mean,"  she  continued,  and  luckily  the  twilight  concealed  her 
blushes, — "  if  that  took  place,  it's  you  that  would  have  yer  own  way." 

"  True  for  ye,  Norry,  my  girl,  true  for  ye;  I  never  thought  of  that  before  !" 
and,  pleased  with  the  idea  of  "  tricking"  his  wife,  the  old  man  fairly  capered  for 
joy.  "  But  stay  a  while — stay,  asy,  asy !"  he  recommenced ;  "  how  am  I  to 
manage  ?  Sure  the  priest  himself  will  be  here  to-morrow  morning  early ;  and 
he's  out  upon  a  station  now — so  'there's  no  speaking  with  him; — he's  no  way 
quick,  either — we  '11  be  bothered  entirely  if  he  comes  in  on  a  suddent." 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  dear  father— leave  it  all  to  me,"  exclaimed  the  animated 
girl;  "only  pluck  up  a  spirit,  and,  whenever  Morris's  name  is  mentioned, 
abuse  him — but  not  with  all  yer  heart,  father — only  from  the  teeth  out" 

When  they  re-entered,  the  fresh-boiled  potatoes  sent  a  warm,  curling  steam 
to  the  very  rafters  of  the  lofty  kitchen ;  they  were  poured  out  into  a  large 
wicker  kish,  and,  on  the  top  of  the  pile,  rested  a  plate  of  coarse  white  salt ; 
noggins  of  butter-milk  were  filled  on  the  dresser ;  and,  on  a  small  round  table. 
a  cloth  was  spread,  and  some  delf  plates  awaited  the  more  delicate  repast 
which  the  farmer's  wife  was  herself  preparing. 

"What's  for  supper,  mother?"  inquired  Norah,  as  she  drew  her  wheel 
towards  her,  and  employed  her  fairy  foot  in  whirling  it  round. 

"  Plaguy  snipeens,"  she  replied;  "bits  o' bog  chickens,  that  you've  always 
such  a  fancy  for ; — Barney  Leary  kilt  them  himself." 

"  So  1  did,"  said  Barney,  grinning ;  "  and  that  stick  wid  a  hook,  of  Morris 
Donovan's,  is  the  finest  thing  in  the  world  for  knocking  'em  down.*' 


THE  WISE  THOUGHT.  9 

"  If  Morris  Donovan's  stick  touched  them,  they  shan't  come  here,"  said  the 
farmer,  striking  the  poor  little  table  such  a  blow,  with  his  clenched  hand,  as 
made  not  only  it,  but  Mrs.  Clary,  jump. 

"  And  why  so,  pray "?"  asked  the  dame. 

"  Because  nothing  belonging  to  Morris,  let  alone  Morris  himself,  shall 
come  into  this  house,"  replied  Clary :  "  he 's  not  to  my  liking  any  how,  and 
there 's  no  good  in  his  bothering  here  after  what  he  won't  get." 

"  Excellent !"  thought  Norah. 

"Lord  save  us!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Clary,  as  she  placed  the  grilled  snipes 
on  the  table,  "what's  come  to  the  man?'  Without  heeding  his  resolution, 
she  was  proceeding  to  distribute  the  savoury  "birdeens,"  when,  to  her 
astonishment,  her  usually  tame  husband  threw  dish  and  its  contents  into  the 
flames;  the  good  woman  absolutely  stood  for  a  moment,  aghast.  The  calm, 
however,  was  not  of  long  duration.  She  soon  rallied,  and  commenced  hos- 
tilities :  "  How  dare  you,  ye  spalpeen,  throw  away  any  of  God's  mate  after 
that  fashion,  and  I  to  the  fore  ?  What  do  you  mane,  I  say  T" 

"  I  mane  that  nothing  touched  by  Morris  Donovan  shall  come  under  this  roof; 
and  if  I  catch  that  girl  of  mine  looking  at  the  same  side  o'  the  road  he  walks 
on,  I'll  tear  the  eyes  out  of  her  head,  and  send  her  to  a  nunnery !" 

"You  will!  and  dare  you  to  say  that  to  my  face,  to  a  child  o'  mine! 
You  will — will  ye? — we'll  see,  my  boy !  I'll  tell  ye  what,  if  /  like,  Morris 
Donovan  shall  come  into  this  house,  and  what 's  more,  be  master  of  this  house ; 
and  that 's  what  you  never  had  the  heart  to  be  yet,  ye  poor  ould  snail !"  So 
saying,  Mistress  Clary  endeavoured  to  rescue  from  the  fire  the  hissing  remains 
of  the  burning  snipes.  Norah  attempted  to  assist  her  mother;  but  Clary, 
lifting  her  up,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  an  eagle  raising  a  golden  wren 
with  its  claw,  fairly  put  her  out  of  the  kitchen.  This  was  the  signal  for  fresh 
hostilities.  Mrs.  Clary  stormed  and  stamped;  and  Mr.  Clary  persisted  in 
abusing,  not  only  Morris,  but  Morris's  uncle,  Father  Donovan,  until,  at  last,  the 
farmer's  help  mate  swore,  ay,  and  roundly  too,  by  cross  and  saint,  that  before 
the  next  sunset,  Norah  Clary  should  be  Norah  Donovan.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  Norry's  eye,  dancing  with  joy  and  exultation,  as  it  peeped  through  the 
latch-hole ; — it  sparkled  more  brightly  than  the  richest  diamond  in  our  monarch's 
crown,  for  it  was  filled  with  hope  and  love. 

The  next  morning,  before  the  sun  was  fully  up,  he  was-  throwing  his  early 
beams  over  the  glowing  cheek  of  Norah  Clary;  for  her  "wise  thought"  had 
prospered,  and  she  was  hastening  to  the  trysting-tree,  where  "by  chance," 
either  morning  or  evening,  she  generally  met  Morris  Donovan.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  but  the  moment  the  course  of  true  love  "  runs  smooth,"  it  becomes 
very  uninteresting,  except  to  the  parties  concerned.  So  it  is  now  left  for  me 
only  to  say,  that  the  maiden,  after  a  due  and  proper  time  consumed  in  teazing 
and  tantalizing  her  intended,  told  him  her  saucy  plan  and  its  result.  And  the 
lover  hastened  upon  the  wings  of  love  (which  I  beg  my  readers  clearly  to 
understand  are  swifter  and  stronger  in  Ireland  than  in  any  other  country),  to 
2 


10 


THE    WISE    THOUGHT. 


apprize  the  priest  of  the  arrangement,  well  knowing  that  his  reverence  loved  his 
nephew,  and  niece  that  was  to  be  (to  say  nothing  of  the  wedding  supper,  and  the 
profits  arising  therefrom),  too  well,  not  to  aid  their  merry  jest. 

What  bustle,  what  preparation,  what  feasting,  what  dancing,  gave  the  coun 
try  folk  enough  to  talk  about  during  the  happy  Christmas  holidays,  I  cannot 
now  describe.  The  bride,  of  course,  looked  lovely  and  "  sheepish ;"  and  the 
bridegroom — but  bridegrooms  are  always  uninteresting.  One  fact,  however, 
is  worth  recording.  When  Father  Donovan  concluded  the  ceremony,  before 
the  bridal  kiss  had  passed,  Farmer  Clary,  without  any  reason  that  his  wife  could 
discover,  most  indecorously  sprang  up,  seized  a  shilelah  of  stout  oak,  and 
whirling  it  rapidly  over  his  head,  shouted,  "  Carry  me  out !  by  the  powers,  she 's 
beat !  we  've  won  the  day !— ould  Ireland  forever !  Success,  boys !  she 's  beat 
— she 's  beat !" — The  priest,  too,  seemed  vastly  to  enjoy  this  extemporaneous 
effusion,  and  even  the  bride  laughed  outright.  Whether  the  good  wife  discovered 
the  plot  or  not,  I  never  heard ;  but  of  this  I  am  certain*  that  the  joyous  Norah 
never  had  reason  to  repent  her  "  wise  thought." 


ANNIE  LESLIE. 


NNIE  LESLIE  was  neither  a  belle  nor  a  beauty— 
a  gentlewoman,  nor  yet  an  absolute  peasant — "  a  for- 
tune," nor  entirely  devoid  of  dower : — although  born 
upon  a  farm  that  adjoined  my  native  village  of  Bannow, 
she  might  almost  have  been  called  a  flower  of  many 
lands ;  for  her  mother  was  a  Scot,  her  father  an 
Englishman;  one  set  of  grandparents  Welsh  —  and  it 
was  said  that  the  others  were  (although  I  never  be- 
lieved it,  and  always  considered  it  a  gossiping  story) 
Italians,  or  foreigners,  "  from  beyant  the  salt  sea." 
It  was  a  very  charming  pastime  to  trace  the  different 
countries  in  Annie's  sweet,  expressive  countenance. 
Ill-natured  people  said  she  had  a  red,  Scottish  head, 
which  I  declare  to  be  an  absolute  story.  The  maiden's 
hair  was  not  red ;  it  was  a  bright  chestnut,  and  glow- 
ing as  a  sunbeam — perhaps,  in  particular  lights,  it 
might  have  had  a  tinge — but,  nonsense !  it  was  anything  but  red ;  the  cheek- 
bone was,  certainly,  elevated ;  yet  who  ever  thought  of  that,  when  gazing  on 
the  soft  cheek,  now  delicate  as  the  bloom  on  the  early  peach — now  purely  car- 
nationed,  as  if  the  eloquent  colour  longed  to  eclipse  the  beauty  of  the  black, 
lustrous  eyes,  that  were  shaded  by  long,  long  eyelashes,  delicately  turned  up  at 
the  points,  as  if  anxious  to  act  as  conductors  to  my  young  friend's  merry 
glances,  of  which,  however,  I  must  confess,  she  was  usually  chary  enough  ? 
Her  figure  was,  unfortunately,  "  of  the  Principality,"  being  somewhat  of  the 
shortest ;  but  her  fair  skin,  and  small,  delicate  mouth,  told  of  English  descent. 
Her  father  was  a  respectable  farmer,  who  had  been  induced,  by  some  circum- 
stance or  other,  to  settle  in  Ireland ;  and  her  mother — but  what  have  I  to  do 
with  either  her  father  or  her  mother,  just  now  ? 

The  sun-fires  had  faded  in  the  west,  and  Annie  was  leaning  on  the  neat 
green  gate  that  led  to  her  cottage ;  her  eyes  wandering  down  the  branching 
lane,  then  to  the  softening  sky,  and  not  unfrequently  to  a  little  spotted  dog, 
Phillis  by  name,  who  sat  close  to  her  mistress's  feet,  looking  upwards,  and 
occasionally  raising  one  ear,  as  if  she  expected  somebody  to  join  their  party. 
It  was  the  full  and  fragrant  season  of  hay-making,  and  Annie  had  borne  her 
part  in  the  cheerful  and  pleasant  toil. 

A  blue  muslin  kerchief  was  sufficiently  open  to  display  her  well-formed 
throat ;  one  or  two  wilful  ringlets  had  escaped  from  under  her  straw  hat,  and 
twisted  themselves  into  very  picturesque,  coquettish  attitudes,  shaded,  but  not 

(11) 


12 


ANNIE    LESLIE. 


hidden,  by  the  muslin  folds ;  her  apron  was  of  bright  check ;  her  short  cotton 
gown,  pinned  in  the  national  three-cornered  fashion  behind,  and  her  petticoat 
of  scarlet  stuff,  displayed  her  small  and  delicately  turned  ankle  to  much  advan- 
tage. She  held  a  bunch  of  mixed  wild  flowers  in  her  hand,  and  her  fingers, 
naturally  addicted  to  mischief,  were  dexterously  employed  in  scattering  the 
petals  to  the  breeze,  which  sported  them  amongst  the  long  grass. 

"Down,  Phillis! — down,  miss!"  said  she,  at  last,  to  the  little  dog,  who, 
weary  of  rest,  stood  on  its  hind  legs,  to  kiss  her  hand;  "down,  do,  ye 're 
always  merry  when  I  am  sad,  and  that's  not  kind  of  ye."  The  animal  obeyed, 
and  remained  very  tranquil,  until  its  mistress  unconsciously  murmured  to  her- 
self— "  Do  I  really  love  him  ?"  Again  she  looked  down  the  lane,  and  then, 
after  giving  a  very  destructive  pull  to  one  of  the  blossoms  of  a  wild  rose,  that 
clothed  the  hedge  in  beauty,  repeated,  somewhat  louder,  the  words,  "  Do  I,  in- 
deed, love  him  ?" 

"  Never  say  the  word  twice — ye  do,  ye  little  rogue !"  replied  a  voice,  that 
sent  an  instantaneous  gush  of  crimson  over  the  maiden's  cheek — while  from 
amid  a  group  of  fragrant  elder-trees  which  grew  out  of  the  mound  that  encom- 
passed the  cottage,  sprang  a  tall,  graceful  youth,  who  advanced  towards  the 
blushing  maiden. 

I  am  sorry  for  it,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  an  incontrovertible  fact,  that 
women  young  and  old — some  more,  and  some  less — are  all  naturally  perverse ; 
they  cannot,  I  believe,  help  it ;  but  their  so  being,  although  occasionally  very 
amusing  to  themselves,  is,  undoubtedly,  very  trying  to  their  lovers,  whose  re- 
monstrances on  the  subject,  since  the  days  of  Adam,  might  as  well  have  been 
given  to  the  winds. 

It  so  happened  that  James  McCleary  was  the  very  person  Annie  Leslie  was 
thinking  about — the  one  of  all  others  she  wished  to  see ;  yet  the  love  of  tor- 
menting, assisted,  perhaps,  by  a  little  maiden  coquetry,  prompted  her  first  to 
curl  her  pretty  Grecian  nose,  and  then  to  bestow  a  hearty  cuff*  on  her  lover's 
cheek,  as  he  attempted  to  salute  her  hand. 

**  Keep  your  distance,  sir,  and  don't  make  so  free !"  said  the  pettish  lady. 

"  Keep  my  distance,  Annie  !  Not  make  so  free !"  echoed  James ;  "  an'  ye, 
jist  this  minute,  after  talking  about  loving  me !" 

"  Loving  you,  indeed !  Mister  James  McCleary,  it  was  yer  betters,  I  was 
thinking  of,  sir ;  I  hope  I  know  myself  too  well  for  that !" 

"  My  betters,  Annie ! — what's  come  over  ye  ?  Surely  ye  haven't  forgot  that 
yer  father  has  as  good  as  given  his  consint ;  and  though  yer  mother  is  partial  to 
Andrew  Furlong — the  tame  neguH — jist  because  he's  got  a  bigger  house  (sure, 
it's  a  Public,  and  can't  be  called  his  own),  and  a  few  more  guineas  than  me,  and 
never  thinks  of  his  being  greyer  than  his  ould  grey  mare — yet  she'll  come 
round ;  let  me  alone  to  manage  the  women — (now,  don't  look  angry) — and 
didn't  yer  own  sweet  mouth  say  it,  not  two  hours  ago,  down  by  the  loch  ? — and, 
by  the  same  token,  Annie,  there's  the  beautiful  curl  I  cut  off  with  the  reaping- 
hook— that,  however  ye  trate  me,  shall  stay  next  to  my  heart,  as  long  as  it  bates 


ANNIE    LESLIE.  13 

— and,  oh,  Annie !  as  ye  sat  on  the  mossy  stone,  I  thought  I  never  saw  ye  look 
so  beautiful — with  that  very  bunch  of  flowers  that  ye  've  been  pulling  to 
smithereens,  resting  on  yer  lap.  And  it  wasn't  altogether  what  ye  said,  but 
what  ye  looked,  that  put  the  life  in  me ;  though  ye  did  say — ye  know  ye  did — 
'  James,'  says  you,  '  I  hate  Andrew  Furlong,  that  I  do,  and  I  '11  never  marry 
him  as  long  as  grass  grows  or  water  runs,  that  I  won't.'  Now,  sure,  Annie, 
dear,  sweet  Annie  ! — sure  ye 're  not  going  aginst  yer  conscience,  and  the  word 
o'  true  love." 

"  Sir,"  interrupted  Annie,  "  I  don't  like  to  be  found  fault  with.  Andrew 
Furlong  is,  what  my  mother  says,  a  well-to-do,  dacent  man,  staid  and  steady. 
I'll  trouble  ye  for  my  curl,  Mister  James — clever  as  ye  are  at  managing  the 
women,  may-be  ye  can't  manage  me." 

James  had  been  very  unskilful  in  his  last  speech;  he  ought  not  to  have 
boasted  of  his  managing  powers,  but  to  have  put  them  in  practice :  the  fact, 
however,  was  that,  though  proverbially  sober,  the  fatigue  of  hay-making,  and 
two  or  three  "  noggins"  of  Irish  grog,  had,  in  some  degree,  bewildered  his  intel- 
lects since  Annie's  return  from  the  meadow.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment, 
drew  the  long  tress  of  hair  half  out  of  his  bosom,  then  replaced  it,  buttoned  his 
waistcoat,  to  the  throat,  as  if  determined  nothing  should  tempt  it  from  him,  and 
said,  in  a  subdued  voice — 

"  Annie,  Annie  Leslie ! — like  a  darlint,  don't  be  so  fractious — for  your  sake 
—for " 

"  My  sake,  indeed,  sir ! — My  sake  ! — I  'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  very 
much,  Mister  James ;  but  let  me  tell  ye,  ye  think  a  dale  too  much  of  yerself  to 
be  speaking  to  me  after  that  fashion,  and  ye  inside  my  own  gate ;  if  ye  were 
outside,  I'd  tell  ye  my  mind ;  but  I  know  better  manners  than  to  insult  any  one 
at  my  own  door-stone:  it's  little  other  people  know  about  dacent  breeding, 
or  they'd  not  abuse  people's  friends  before  people's  faces,  Mister  James 
McCleary." 

"  I  see  how  it  is,  Miss  Leslie,"  replied  James,  really  angry :  "  ye  've  resolved 
to  sell  yerself,  for  yer  board  and  lodging,  to  that  grate  cask  of  London  porter, 
Andrew  Furlong  by  name,  and  a  booby  by  nature ;  but  I  '11  not  stay  in  the  place 
to  witness  yer  parjury — I  '11  go  to  sea,  or — I  '11 — " 

"  Ye  may  go  where  ye  like,"  responded  the  maiden,  who  now  thought  her- 
self much  aggrieved  and  injured,  "  and  the  sooner  the  better !"  She  threw  the 
remains  of  the  faded  nosegay  from  her,  and  opened  the  green  gate  at  the  same 
instant — the  gate  which,  not  ten  minutes  before,  she  had  rested  on,  thinking  of 
James  McCleary — thinking  that  he  was  the  best  wrestler,  the  best  hurler,  the 
best  dancer,  and  the  most  sober  lad  in  the  country ; — thinking,  moreover,  that 
he  was  as  handsome,  if  not  as  genteel,  as  the  young  'squire ;  and  wondering  if 
he  would  always  love  her  as  dearly  as  he  did  then.  Yet,  in  her  perversity,  she 
flung  back  the  gate  for  the  faithful-minded  to  pass  from  her  cottage,  careless  of 
consequences,  and,  at  the  moment,  really  believing  that  she  loved  him  not.  So 


14  AXME    LESLIE. 

much  for  a  wilful  woman,  before  she  knows  the  value  of  earth's  greatest  trea- 
sure  AN  HONEST  HEART. 

"  Since  it 's  come  to  this,"  said  poor  Jaunes,  "  any  how,  bid  me  good-bye, 
Annie. — What,  not  one  '  God  be  wid  ye,'  to  him  who  will  soon  be  on  the  salt 
— salt  sea !"  But  Annie  looked  more  angry  than  before ;  thinking,  while  he 
spoke,  that  he  would  come  back  fast  enough  to  her  window  next  morning,  bring- 
ing fresh  grass  for  her  kid,  or  food  for  her  young  linnets,  or,  perchance,  flowers 
to  deck  her  hair ;  or  (if  he  luckily  met  Peggy,  the  fisher,)  a  new  blue  silk  necker- 
chief as  a  peace-offering. 

"  Well,  God's  blessing  be  about  ye,  Annie ;  and  may  ye  never  feel  what  I 
do  now  1"  So  saying,  the  young  man  rushed  down  the  green  lane,  frighting 
the  wood-pigeons  from  their  repose,  and  putting  to  flight  the  timid  hare  and 
tender  leveret,  who  sought  their  evening  meal  where  the  dew  fell  thickly,  and 
the  clover  was  most  luxuriant.  There  was  a  fearful  reality  about  the  youth's 
farewell  that  startled  the  maiden,  obstinate  as  she  was ;— her  heart  beat  vio- 
lently, and  the  demon  of  coquetry  was  overpowered  by  her  naturally  affec- 
tionate feelings.  She  called,  faintly  at  first,  "  James,  James,  dear  James  ;"  and 
poor  little  Phillis  scampered  down  the  lane,  as  if  she  comprehended  her  mis- 
tress's wish.  Presently,  Annie  was  certain  she  heard  footsteps  approaching; 
her  first  movement  was  to  spring  forward,  and  her  next  (alas,  for  coquetry !)  to 
retire  into  the  parlour,  and  await  the  return  of  her  lover ; — "  what  she  wished 
to  be  true,  love  bade  her  believe ;"  there  she  stood,  her  eyes  freed  from  their 
tears,  and  turned  from  the  open  window.  Presently,  the  gate  was  unlatched ; 
in  another  moment  a  hand  softly  pressed  her  arm,  and  a  deep-drawn  sigh  broke 
upon  her  ear. 

"  He  is  very  sorry,"  thought  she,  "  and  so  am  I."  She  turned  round,  and 
beheld  the  good-humoured,  rosy  face  of  mine  host  of  the  Public ;  his  yellow 
bob-wig  evenly  placed  over  his  grey  hair ;  his  Sunday  suit  well  brushed ;  and 
his  embroidered  waistcoat  (pea-green  ground,  with  blue  roses  and  scarlet  lilies) 
covering,  by  its  immense  lapelles,  no  very  juvenile  rotundity  of  figure.  Poor 
Annie !  she  was  absolutely  dumb :  had  Andrew  been  a  horned  owl,  she  could 
not  have  shrunk  with  more  horror  from  his  grasp.  Her  silence  afforded  her 
senior  lover  an  opportunity  of  uttering,  or  rather  growling  forth,  his  "pro- 
posal." "  Ye  see,  Miss  Leslie,  I  see  no  reason  why  \ve  two  shouldn't  be 
married,  because  I  have  more  regard  for  ye,  tin  to  one,  than  any  young  fellow 
could  have :  for  I  am  a  man  of  experience,  and  know  wrong  from  right,  and 
right  from  wrong — which  is  all  one.  Yer  father,  but  more  especially  yer  mo- 
ther (who  has  oceans  of  sense,  for  a  woman),  are  for  me ;  and,  beautiful  as  ye 
are,  and  more  beautiful,  for  sartin,  than  any  girl  in  the  land,  yet  ye  can't  know 
what's  good  for  ye  as  well  as  they  !  And -ye  shall  have  a  jaunting-car — a  bran 
new  jaunting-car  of  yer  own,  to  go  to  mass  or  church,  as  may  suit  yer  con- 
science, for  I  'd  be  far  from  putting  a  chain  upon  ye,  barring  one  of  roses, 
which  '  Cupid  waves,'  as  the  song  says,  '  for  all  true  constant  loviers.'  Now, 
Miss,  machree,  it  being  all  settled — for  sure  ye  're  too  wise  to  refuse  sich  an 


ANNIE    LESLIE.  15 

offer! — here,  on  my  two  bare  knees,  in  the  moonbames — that  Romeyo  swore 
by,  in  the  play  I  saw  when  I  was  as  good  as  own  man  to  an  honourable  mem- 
ber o*  parliament — (it  was  in  this  service  he  learned  to  make  long  speeches,  on 
which  he  prided  himself  greatly)  —  do  I  swear  to  be  to  you  a  kind  and  faithful 
husband  —  and  true  to  you  and  you  alone." 


Mr.  Andrew  sank  slowly  on  his  knees,  for  the  sake  of  comfort  resting  his 
elbows  on  the  window-sill,  and  took  forcible  possession  of  Annie's  hand,  who, 
angry,  mortified,  and  bewildered,  hardly  knew  in  what  set  terms  to  vent  her 
displeasure.  Just  at  this  crisis,  the  garden-gate  opened ;  and  little  Phillis,  who, 
by  much  suppressed  growling,  had  manifested  her  wrath  at  the  clumsy  courtship 
of  the  worthy  host,  sprang  joyously  out  of  the  window.  Before  any  alteration 
could  take  place  in  the  attitudes  of  the  parties,  James  McCleary  stood  before 
them,  boiling  with  jealousy  and  rage.  "So,  Miss  Leslie — a  very  pretty  man- 
ner you 've  treated  me  in!  —  and  it  was  for  that  carcase  (and  he  pushed  his 
foot  against  Andrew  Furlong),  that  ye  trampled  me  like  the  dust ;  it  was  be- 
cause he  has  a  few  more  bits  o'  dirty  bank  notes,  that  he  scraped  by  being  a 
lick-plate  to  an  unworthy  mimber,  who  sould  his  country  to  the  Union  and  Lord 
Castlereagh :  but  ye  '11  sup  sorrow  for  it — ye  will,  Annie  Leslie,  for  yer  love  is 
wid  me,  bad  as  ye  are ;  yer  cheek  has  blushed,  yer  eye  has  brightened,  yer 
heart  has  bate  for  me,  as  it  never  will  for  you,  ye  foolish,  foolish  ould  cratur, 
who  thinks  the  finest — the  holiest  feeling  that  God  gives  us,  can  be  bought  with 


16          .  ANNIE    LESLIE. 

goold !  But  I  am  done ;  as  ye  have  sowed,  Annie,  so  ye  may  reap.  I 
forgive  ye — though  my  heart — my  heart — is  torn — almost,  almost  broken ;  for 
I  thought  ye  faithful — I  was  wound  up  in  ye — ye  were  the  very  core  of  my  heart 

— and  now "  The  young  man  pressed  his  head  against  a  cherry-tree,  whose 

wide-spreading  branches  overshadowed  the  cottage.  Annie,  much  affected, 
rushed  into  the  garden,  and  took  his  hand  affectionately ;  he  turned  upon  her  a 
withering  look,  for  the  jealous  fit  was  waxing  stronger. 

"  What !  do  ye  want  to  make  more  sport  of  me  to  please  yer  young  and  hand- 
some lover  ?  Oh !  that  ever  I  should  throw  ye  from  me ?"  He  flung  back  her 
hand,  and  turned  to  the  gate ;  but  Andrew,  the  gallant  Andrew,  thought  it  be- 
hoved him  to  interfere  when  his  lady-love  was  treated  in  such  a  disdainful  man- 
ner; and,  after  having,  with  his  new  green  silk  handkerchief,  carefully  dusted 
the  knees  of  his  scarlet  plush  breeches,  came  forward  : 

"  I  take  it  that  that 's  a  cowardly  thing  for  you  to  do,  James  McCleary — a 
cow " 

"  What  do  you  say  ?"  vociferated  James,  whose  passion  had  now  found  an 
object  to  vent  itself  on  —  "did  you  dare  call  me  a  coward?"  He  seized  the  old 
man  by  the  throat,  and,  griping  him  as  an  eagle  would  a  land-tortoise,  held  him 
at  arm's  length :  "  Look  ye,  ye  fat  ould  calf,  if  ye  were  my  equal  in  age  or 
strength,  it  is  n't  talking  to  ye  I  'd  be ;  but  I  'd  scorn  to  illtrate  a  man  of  yer 
years  —  though  I  'd  give  a  thousand  pounds  this  minute  that  ye  were  young 
enough  for  a  fair  fight,  that  I  might  have  the  glory  to  break  every  bone  in  yer 
body — but  there  !" — He  flung  his  weighty  captive  from  him  with  so  much  vio- 
lence, that  mine  host  found  himself  extended  amid  a  quantity  of  white-heart 
cabbages ;  while  poor  James  sprang  amid  the  elder-trees,  which  before  had  been 
his  place  of  happy  concealment,  and  rushed  away. 

Annie  stood  erect  under  the  shadow  of  the  cherry-tree,  against  which  James 
had  rested,  and  the  rays  of  the  clear,  full  moon,  flickering  through  the  foliage, 
showed  that  her  face  was  pale  and  still  as  marble.  In  vain  did  Phillis  jump  and 
lick  her  hand ;  in  vain  did  Andrew  vociferate,  in  tender  accents,  from  the  cab- 
bage-bed where  he  lay,  trying  first  to  turn  upon  one  side,  and  then  on  the  other 
— "  Will  no  one  take  pity  on  me  ?"— "  Will  nobody  help  me  up '!"  There  stood 
Annie,  wondering  if  the  scene  was  real,  and  if  all  the  misery  she  endured  could 
possibly  have  originated  with  herself.  She  might  have  remained  there  much 
longer,  had  not  her  father  and  mother  returned  from  the  meadows,  where  they 
had  been  distributing  the  usual  dole  of  spirits  to  their  barelegged  labourers. 
"  Hey,  mercy,  and  what 's  the  matter  noo  ?"  exclaimed  the  old  Scotch  lady  ; 
"  why,  Annie,  ye  're  clean  daft  for  certain ;  and,  good  man  Andrew !  what  has 
happened  you,  that  ye  're  rubbing  your  clothes  with  your  bit  napkin,  like  a  fury  1 
Hey  !  mercy  me,  if  my  beautiful  kail  isn't  perfectly  ruined,  as  if  a  hail  hogshead 
of  yill  had  been  row'd  over  it !  Speak,  ye  young  hizzy  !" — and  she  shook  her 
daughter's  arm — "  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Annie,"  said  her  less  eloquent  father ;  "  tell  me  all  about  it,  love ;  how 
pale  you  are !"  He  led  his  child  affectionately  into  the  little  parlour,  while 


ANNIE    LESLIE.  17 

Andrew,  with  a  doleful  tone  and  gesture,  related  to  the  "  gude-wife"  the  whole 
story,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned.  The  poor  girl's  feelings  were,  at  length, 
relieved  by  a  passionate  burst  of  tears ;  and,  sobbing  on  her  father's  bosom,  she 
told  the  truth,  and  confessed  it  was  her  love  of  tormenting  that  had  caused  all 
the  mischief. 

"  I  do  believe,"  said  the  honest  Englishman,  "  all  you  women  are  the  same. 
Your  mother  was  nearly  as  bad  in  our  courting  days.  James  is  too  hot  and 
too  hasty — rapid  in  word  and  action ;  and,  knowing  him  as  you  do,  you  were 
wrong  to  trifle  with  him ;  but  there,  love,  I  must,  I  suppose,  go  and  find  him, 
and  make  all  right  again ;  shall  I,  Annie  ?" 

"  Father !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  hiding  her  face  in  that  safe  resting-place,  a 
parent's  bosom. 

"  Send  old  Andrew  off,  and  bring  James  back  to  supper — eh  ?" 

"  Dear  father !" 

"  And  you  will  not  be  perverse,  but  make  sweet  friends  again  ?" 

"  Dear,  dear  father !" 

The  good  man  set  off  on  his  embassy,  first  warning  his  wife  not  to  scold 
Annie ;  adding,  somewhat  sternly,  he  \vould  not  permit  her  to  be  sold  to  any 
one.  To  which  speech,  had  he  wraited  for  it,  he  would  doubtless  have  received 
a  lengthened  reply. 

As  Mr,  Leslie  proceeded  down  the  lane  I  have  so  often  mentioned,  he  en- 
countered a  man  well  known  in  the  country  by  the  soubriquet  of  "  Alick  the 
Traveller,"  who,  with  his  wearied  donkey,  was  in  search  of  a  place  of  rest. 
Alick  was  a  person  of  great  importance,  known  to  every  body,  high  and  low, 
rich  and  poor,  in  the  province  of  Leinster:  he  was  an  amusing,  cunning,  good- 
tempered  fellow,  who  visited  the  gentlemen's  houses  as  a  hawker  of  various 
fish,  particularly  oysters,  which  he  procured  from  the  far-famed  Wexford  beds ; 
and,  after  disposing  of  his  cargo,  he  was  accustomed  to  reload  his  panniers 
from  our  cockle-strand  of  Bannow,  which  is  equally  celebrated  for  that  delicate 
little  fish.  Neither  shoes  nor  stockings  did  Alick  wear ;  no,  he  carried  them 
in  his  hand,  and  never  put  them  on,  until  he  got  within  sight  of  the  genteei 
houses; — "he'd  be  long  sorry  to  give  dacent  shoes  or  stockings  such  usage: 
sure  his  feet  were  well  used  to  the  stones !"  His  figure  was  tall  and  erect ; 
and  the  long  stick  of  sea-weed,  with  which  he  urged  poor  Dapple's  speed,  was 
thrown  over  his  shoulder  with  the  careless  air  that,  in  a  well-dressed  man,  would 
be  called  elegant.  A  wreather-beaten  chapeau  de  paille  shaded  his  rough  but 
agreeable  features ;  and  stuck  on  one  side  of  it,  in  the  twine  which  served  as  a 
hat-band,  were  a  "  cutty  pipe,"  and  a  few  sprigs  of  beautifully  tinted  sea-weed 
and  delisk,  forming  an  appropriate,  but  singular  garniture.  He  was  whisfling 
loudly  on  his,  way,  and  cheering  his  weary  companion,  occasionally,  by  kind 
words  of  encouragement. 

"  God  save  ye,  this  fine  evening,  Mr.  Leslie ;  I  was  just  thinking  of  you, 
and  all  yer  good  family,  which  I  hope  is  hearty,  as  well  as  the  woman  that 
owns  ye.  And  I  was  just  saying  to  myself  that,  may-be  ye'd  let  me  and  the 
'3 


18  ANNIE    LESLIE. 

baste  stay  in  the  corner  to-night,  for  I've  a  power  o'  beautiful  fish,  and  I  want 
to  be  early  among  the  gentry.  But  if  the  mistress  likes  a  taste  of  news,  or  a 
rattling  hake — " 

"Alick,"  said  Leslie,  who  knew  by  experience,  the  difficulty  of  stopping 
his  tongue  "  when  once  it  was  set  a  going," — "  go  to  the  house;  and  there's  a 
hearty  welcome — a  good  supper  and  clean  straw  for  ye  both.  But  tell  me,  have 
you  seen  James  McCleary  this  evening  ?" 

"Och!  is  it  James  ye 're  after?  There's  a  beautiful  lobster! — let  Kenny, 
Paddy  Kenny  (may-be  ye  don't  know  Paddy,  the  fishmonger,  wid  the  blue  door 
at  the  corner  of  the  ould  market  in  Wexford),  let  Paddy  Kenny  bate  that ! " 

"  But  James  McCleary " 

"  True  for  ye,  he'll  be  glad  to  see  ye.  Now,  Mister  Leslie,  tell  us  the  truth, 
did  ye  ever  see  sich  crabs  as  thim  in  England  1  Where  'ud  they  get  them,  and 
they  so  far  from  the  sea  ?" 

"  I  want " 

"  I  humbly  ax  yer  pardon — I  saw  him  jist  now  cutting  off  in  that  way,  as 
straight  as  a  conger  eel — I  had  one  t'other  day,  Mister  Leslie  (it's  as  true  as 
that  ye 're  standing  there),  it  weighed " 

*'  What  ? — did  he  go  across  the  fields  in  that  direction  ?" 

"  Is  it  he  ? — troth,  no,  I  skinned  him  as  nate " 

"  Skinned  who  ?— James  McCleary  ?" 

"  Och,  no ;  the  conger." 

"Will  you  tell  me  in  what  direction  you  saw  James 'McCleary  go? — the 
misfortune  of  all  Irishmen  is,  that  they  answer  one  question  by  asking  another." 

"  I  don't  like  ye  to  be  taking  the  country  down,  after  that  fashion,  Mister 
Leslie;  it's  bad  manners,  and  I  can't  see  any  misfortune  about  it;  and  if  I  did, 
there's  no  good  in  life  of  making  a  cry  about  it ; — but  there's  an  illegant  cod ! — 
there's  a  whopper! — there's  been  no  rest  or  peace  wid  that  lump  of  a  fellow  all 
the  evening — whacking  his  tail  in  the  face  of  every  fish  in  the  basket ;  I  '11  let 
the  misthress  have  him  a  bargain  if  she  likes,  jist  to  get  rid  of  him — the  tory !" 

Leslie  at  last  found  that  his  questions  were  useless ;  so  he  motioned  "  Alick 
the  Traveller"  to  his  dwelling,  and  proceeded  on  his  way  to  James's  cottage ; — 
while  Alick,  gazing  after  him  half  muttered,  "There's  no  standing  thim 
Englishmen ;  the  best  of  them  are  so  dead  like — not  a  word  have  they  in  their 
head;  not  the  least  taste  in  life  for  conversation.  Catch  James! — I  hope  it 
didn't  turn  out  bad,  though,"  he  continued,  in  a  still  lower  tone:  "what  I  said 
awhile  agone  was  all  out  o'  innocence,  for  a  bit  o'  fun  wid  the  ould  one."  He 
turned,  and,  for  a  moment,  watched  the  path  taken  by  Leslie,  then  proceeded 
on  his  way,  muttering — "  'tis  very  quare,  though." 

At  the  door  of  James  McCleary's  cottage,  Leslie  encountered  the  young 
man's  mother.  "  I  was  jist  going  to  your  place  to  ask  what's  come  over  my 
boy,"  said  she ;  "  I  can't  make  him  out ;  he  came  in,  in  such  a  fluster,  about  tin 
minutes  agone,  and  kicked  up  sich  a  bobbery  in  no  time :  floostered  over  his 


.    if 

ANNIE    LESLIE.  19 

clothes  in  the  press,  cursed  all  the  women  in  the  world,  bid  God  bless  me,  and 
set  off,  full  speed,  like  a  wild  deer,  across  the  country." 

"  Indeed !"  exclaimed  Leslie. 

"  I  know,  Mr.  Leslie,  that  my  boy  has  been  keeping  company  wid  your  girl ; 
and  I  have  nothing  to  say  agin  her ;  she  has  a  dale  o'  the  lady  about  her,  yet  is 
humble  and  modest  as  any  lamb:  but  I  think,  may-be,  they've  had  a  bit  of  a 
ruction  about  some  footy  thing  or  other  ;  but  men  can't  bear  to  be  contradicted, 
though  I  own  it's  good  for  them,  and  more  especially  James,  who  has  a  dale 
of  his  father  in  him,  who  I  had  to  manage  (God  rest  his  sowl !)  like  any  babby. 
However,  James  has  too  much  sense  to  go  far,  I'm  thinking — only  to  his  aunt's 
husband's  daughter,  by  the  Black-water,  fancying  may-be,  to  bring  Annie  round ; 
and  so  I  was  going  to  see  her,  to  know  the  rights  of  it." 

The  kind-hearted  farmer  told  her  nearly  all  he  knew,  with  fatherly  feeling 
glossing  over  Annie's  pettishness  as  much  as  he  possibly  could.  Mrs.  McCleary 
remained  firm  in  her  opinion  that  he  had  only  gone  down  to  the  Black-water, 
and  would  return  the  next  day.  But  Leslie's  mind  foreboded  evil.  When  he 
arrived  at  home,  he  found  "  Alick  the  Traveller"  comfortably  seated  in  the  large 
chimney-corner — a  cheerful  turf  fire  casting  its  light,  sometimes  in  broad 
masses,  sometimes  in  brilliant  flashes,  over  the  room :  the  neat,  white  cloth 
was  laid  for  supper ;  and  the  busy  dame  was  seated  opposite  the  itinerant  man 
of  fish,  laughing  long  and  loudly  at  his  quaint  jokes  and  merry  stories.  Annie 
was  looking  vacantly  from  the  door  that  was  shut,  to  the  window,  through 
which  she  could  not  see  ;  and  Phillis  was  stretched  along  the  comfortable  hearth, 
rousing  herself,  occasionally,  to  reprimand  the  rudeness  of  a  small,  white  kitten, 
Annie's  particular  pet,  which  obstinately  persisted  in  playing  with  the  long, 
silky  hairs  of  the  spaniel's  bushy  tail.  When  Leslie  entered,  the  poor  girl's 
heart  beat  violently ;  and  the  colour  rose  and  faded  almost  at  the  same  moment. 
She  busied  herself  about  household  matters,  to  escape  observation ;  broke  the 
salt-cellar  in  endeavouring  to  force  it  into  the  cruet-stand,  and  verified  the  old 
proverb,  "  spill  the  salt,  and  get  a  scolding,"  for  the  mother  did  scold  in  no 
measured  terms,  at  the  destruction  of  what  the  careless  hizzy  had  broken. 
"  Did  ye  na  ken  that  it  had  been  used  for  twenty  years  and  mair  ?"  she 
reiterated ;  "  and  did  Christian  woman  ever  see  sic  folly,  to  force  a  broad  salt, 
of  thick  glass,  into  a  place  that  can  na  mair  than  haud  a  wee  bottle  ?  The  girl's 
daft,  and  that's  the  end  on't."  Notwithstanding  the  jests  of  Alick,  the  evening 
passed  heavily :  Annie  complained  of  illness,  and  went  soon  to  bed ;  and  as  her 
father  kissed  her,  at  the  door  of  her  little  chamber,  he  felt  that  her  cheek  was 
moist  and  cold.  Mrs.  Leslie  soon  followed ;  and  the  farmer  replenished  his 
long  pipe  as  Alick  added  fresh  tobacco  to  his  stumpy  one.  "  I  'm  sorry  to  see 
Miss  Annie  so  ill,"  said  the  honest  hawker,  in  a  kindly  tone ;  "  but  this  time  all 
the  girls  get  tired  at  the  hay-making.  Well,  it  bates  all,  to  think  how  you 
farmers  can  be  continted  jist  wid  looking  on  the  sky,  and  watching  the  crops, 
over  and  over  again,  in  the  same  place !  I  might  as  well  lie  down  and  die  at 
onst,  as  not  keep  going  from  place  to  place.  One  sees  a  dale  more  o'  life,  and 


20  ANNIE    LESLIE. 

one  sees  more  o'  the  tricks  o'  the  times.  Och,  but  the  world's  a  fine  world, 
only  for  the  people  that's  in  it ! — it's  them  spiles  it. — I  had  something  to  say  to 
you,  Mister  Leslie,  very  partiklar,  that  I  came  to  the  knowledge  of  quite  inno- 
cent Ye  mind  that  Mister  Mullager,  Maley,  as  he  calls  himself  for  the  sake 
of  the  English,  has  been  playing  the  puck  wid  Lord  Clifford's  tinnants,  as 
might  be  expected ;  for  his  mother  was  a  chimbley  sweeper,  that  had  the  luck 
to  marry  a  dacent  boy  enough,  only  a  little  turned  three-score ;  and  thin,  this 
beautiful  scoundrel  came  into  the  world,  and,  betwixt  the  two,  they  left  him  the 
power  and  all  o'  hard  yellow  ginnees.  Now,  he  being  desperate  'cute,  got  into 
my  Lord's  employ,  being  only  a  slip  of  a  boy  at  the  time.  Well,  lords,  to  my 
thinking  (barring  the  ould  ancient  ones),  are  only  foolish  sort  of  min,  any  how 
— I  could  go  bail  that  my  Lord  Clifford  had  n't  a  full  knowledge  box,  any  way ; 
and  so,  through  one  sly  turn  or  other,  this  fellow  bothered  him  so,  and  threw 
dust  in  his  eyes,  and  wheedled  him,  that,  ye  know,  at  last  he  comes  the  gintle- 
man  over  us ;  and  tould  me  t'other  day,  that  as  fine  a  jacky-dorey  as  iver  ye  set 
yer  two  good-looking  eyes  on,  was  nothing  but  a  fluke — the  ignorant  baste! 
Fine  food  for  sharks  he'd  be;  only  the  cratur  that 'ud  ate  him  must  be  hungry 
enough — the  thief  o'  the  world!" 

"  What  has  all  this  to  do  with  me,  Alick  ?"  inquired  the  Englishman,  steadily, 
while  the  traveller,  incensed  at  the  remembrance  of  the  insult  offered  to  his  fish, 
scattered  the  burning  ashes  out  of  his  cutty  pipe,  to  the  no  small  consternation 
of  the  crickets — merry  things ! — who  had  come  to  the  hearth-stone  to  regale 
on  cold  potatoes.  "  I  know,"  he  continued,  "  that  the  agent,  or  whatever  he 
calls  himself,  is  no  friend  of  mine.  When  my  landlord  came  to  the  country,  he 
did  me  the  honour  to  ask  my  opinion ;  I  showed  him  the  improvements,  that  I, 
as  an  English  farmer,  thought  might  be  profitable  to  the  estate ;  he  desired  me 
to  give  in  an  estimate  of  the  expense ;  I  did  so ;  but  the  honest  agent,  or  more 
properly  speaking,  middle-man,  had  given  one  in  before.  His  Lordship  found 
that,  by  my  arrangements,  the  expense  was  lessened  one-half;  but  Maley 
persuaded  my  Lord  that  his  plans  were  best,  and  so " 

"Ay,"  interrupted  Alick,  "couldn't  ye  have  been  contint  to  mind  yer  farm, 
and  not  be  putting  English  plans  of  improvement  into  an  Irish  head,  where  it's 
so  hard  to  make  them  fit?  When  the  devil  was  civil,  and,  like  a  jintleman, 
held  out  his  paw  to  ye,  why  didn't  ye  make  yer  bow,  and  take  it? — sure,  that 
had  been  only  manners,  let  alone  sense — don't  look  so  bleared !  What,  ye 
don't  understand  me?"  Alick  advanced  his  body  slowly  forward,  rested  his 
elbows  on  the  small  table,  pressed  his  face  almost  close  to  Leslie's,  whose  turn 
it  was,  now,  to  lay  down  his  pipe,  and  slowly  said,  in  a  firm,  audible  whisper. — 
"Whin  Tim  Mullager,  the  curse  o'  the  poor — the  thing  in  man's  shape,  but 
widout  a  heart — met  ye  one  evening,  by  chance  as  you  thought,  at  the  far  corner 
of  the  very  field  ye  cut  to-day,  what  tempted  ye  (for  ye  mind  the  time — my 
Lord  thought  a  dale  about  yer  English  notions  thin),  whin  he  axed  ye,  as  sweet 
as  new  milk,  to  join  him  in  that  very  estimate  unknowns!  to  my  Lord,  and  said, 
ye  mind,  that  it  might  be  made  convanient  to  the  both  o'  ye,  and  a  dale  more 


ANNIE    LESLIE. 

to  the  same  purpose ;  and  instead  of  seeming  to  come  in,  my  jewel !  you,  talked 
something  about  'tegrity  and  honour,  which  was  as  hard  for  him  to  make  out  as 
priest's  Latin ;  and  walked  off  as  stately  as  the  tower  of  Hook." 

"  But  I  never  mentioned  a  syllable  of  his  falsehood  to  do  him  injury."  ex- 
claimed the  astonished  farmer ;  "  I  never  breathed  it,  even,  to  Lord  Clifford." 

"And  more  fool  you — I  ax  yer  pardon,  but  more  fool  you — that  was  yer 
time ;  and  it  was  the  time  for  more  than  that — it  was  the  time  for  ye  to  get  a 
newr  laase  upon  the  ould  terms,  and  not  to  be  trusting  to  lords'  promises,  which 
are  as  asy  broken  as  anybody  else's." 

"  You  are  a  strange  fellow,  Alick ;  how  did  you  know  anything  about  my 
lease  ?  At  all  events,  though  it  is  expired,  I  am  safe  enough,  for  I  am  sure  that 
even  Maley  could  not  wish  a  better  tenant." 

"A  better  tinant!"  responded  Alick,  fairly  laughing:  "a  better  tinant!  — 
fait,  that's  not  bad ! — What  does  he  care  whether  ye're  a  good  or  bad  tinant  to 
my  Lord? — doesn't  he  want — man  alive! — to  have  ye  body  and  sowl? — the 
rig'lar  rint,  to  be  sure,  for  the  master ;  all  fair ;— the  little  dooshure  for  himself; 
the  saaling  money,  if  a  laase  to  the  fore ;  and  a  five-pound  note,  not  amiss  as  a 
civility  to  his  bit  of  a  wife ;  thin  the  duty-hens,  duty-turkeys,  duty-geese,  duty- 
pigs  ; — the  spinning  and  the  knitting : — sure,  if  my  Lord  or  my  Lady  isn't  to  the 
fore,  they  '11  save  them  the  trouble  of  looking  after  sich  things ;  and  they,  ye 
know,  get  the  cash — that  is,  as  much  as  the  agent  chooses  to  say  is  their  due — 
and  spe/id  it  in  foreign  parts,  widout  thinking  o'  the  tears  and  the  blood  it  costs 
at  home.  Och,  Mr.  Leslie!  it's  no  wonder  if  we'd  have  the  black  heart  to 
sich  as  them  1" 

Leslie,  for  the  first  time  of  his  life,  felt  a  doubt  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
situation  in  which  he  was  placed :  he  looked  around  upon  the  fair  white  walls, 
so  dear,  so  very  dear,  to  the  purest  feelings  of  his  heart ;  every  object  had  a 
claim  on  his  affections, — even  the  long  wooden  peg,  upon  which  his  great  coat 
hung  behind  the  door,  was  as  valuable  to  him  as  if  it  were  of  gold. 

"  I  can  hardly  understand  this,"  said  he,  at  last ;  "  you  know  I  have  always 
been  on  good  terms  with  my  neighbours,  yet  I  have  acquired  little  knowledge 
in  these  matters;  I  have  always  paid  my  rent  to  the  moment;  and,  as  my 
twenty-one  years'  lease  only  expired  two  or  three  days  ago,  I  have  had  little 
opportunity  of  judging  how  Irish  agents  behave  on  such  occasions." 

"  Don't  be  running  down  the  country,  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  Alick,  quickly, 
"there's  a  dale  in  the  differ  betwixt  the  raale  gintry  and  such  musheroons  as 
he;  but  keep  a  look-out,  for  he's  after  no  good.  The  day  afore  yesterday, 
when  he  behaved  so  unhandsome  to  my  jacky-dorey — ('twould  ha'  done  yer 
heart  good  to  look  at  that  beautiful  fish),  he  was  walking  with  another  spillogue 
of  a  fellow  (the  gauger  by  the  same  token) ;  and  so,  as  they  seemed  as  thick 
as  two  rogues,  whispering  and  nodding,  and  laying  down  the  law,  I  thought  if 
I  let  the  baste  go  on,  he'd  keep  safe  to  the  road;  and  so,  as  they  walked  up 
one  side  of  the  hedge  that  leads  to  the  hill,  I  jist  streeled  up  the  other,  to  see, 


22  ANNIE    LESLIE. 

for  the  honour  of  ould  Ireland,  if  I  could  fish  out  the  rogue's  maning.  Well, 
to  be  sure,  they  settled  as  how  the  rint  should  be  doubled  on  the  land  that 
fell,  more  especially  yours,  and  fines  raised,  and  the  gauger's  to  act  as  '  turney  ;' 
but  he  said  that  he  knew  you  'd  pay  anything  rather  than  lave  the  house  ye 
settled  up  yerself ;  and  then  t'  other  said  that  ('t  was  the  word  he  spoke),  '  the 
ould  Scotch  cat'  wouldn't  let  ye  spind  the  money;  and  then  t'other  held  to  it, 
and  said  ye  must  go,  for  ye  set  a  bad  example  of  indipindence  to  the  neigh- 
bours, and  a  dale  more ;  but  the  upshot  was,  that  they  must  get  rid  o'  ye.  And 
now,  God  be  wid  ye,  and  do  yer  best ;  and  take  care  of  that  girl  o'  yours,  and 
don't  let  the  mistress  bother  her  about  that  ould  man,  any  more ;  she  's  full  o' 
little  tricks  —  may  sense,  not  sorrow,  sober  thim,  say  I :  good-night,  and  thank 
ye  kindly ;  Mr.  Leslie,  I  'm  the  boy  '11  look  to  ye,  and  don't  think  bad  o'  my 
saying  that  to  the  likes  o'  you ;  for  ye  remimber  how  the  swallow  brought 
word  to  the  eagle  where  the  fowler  stood.  God's  blessing  be  about  ye  all, 
Amin!"  And  the  keen,  wandering,  good-natured  fellow  left  the  house,  to 
share,  according  to  custom,  Dapple's  couch  of  clean  straw,  in  the  neighbour- 
ing shed. 

The  next  morning  Leslie's  family  received  a  visit  from  the  agent,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  Annie  and  her  mother,  who  welcomed  him  with  much  civility,  while 
the  farmer's  naturally  independent  feelings  struggled  stoutly  with  his  interests. 
If  there  be  one  thing  more  than  another  to  admire  in  the  character  of  English 
yeomen,  it  is  their  steady  bearing  towards  their  superiors ;  they  feel  that  they 
are  free-born  men,  and  they  act  as  such :  but  an  Irish  farmer  must  often  play 
the  spaniel  to  his  landlord,  and  to  all  that  belong  to  his  household,  or  bear  his 
name ;  hardly  daring  to  believe  himself  a  man,  much  less  fancy  that,  from  his 
Maker's  hand,  he  came  forth  a  being  gifted  with  quick  and  high  intellect — with 
a  heart  to  feel,  and  a  head  to  think,  as  well  as,  if  not  better  than,  the  lord  of  the 
soil  But  Mind,  though  it  may  be  suppressed,  cannot  be  destroyed ;  with  the 
Irish  peasant,  cunning  frequently  takes  the  place  of  boldness,  and  he  becomes 
dangerous  to  his  oppressors.  Landlords  may  often  thank  their  own  wretched 
policy  for  the  crimes  of  their  tenantry,  when  they  cease  to  reside  amongst,  or 
even  visit,  them,  but  leave  them  to  the  artful  management  of  ignorant  and  de- 
based middle-men,  who  uniformly  have  but  two  principles  of  action — to  blindfold 
their  employers,  and  gain  wealth  at  the  expense  of  proprietor  and  tenant. 

"  Yer  house  is  always  nate  and  clane,  Mrs.  Leslie,"  said  Maley,  "  and  yer 
farm  does  ye  credit,  master ;  I  'm  sorry  it 's  out  of  lase,  but  my  duty  to  my 
employer  obliges  me  to  tell  you  that  a  new  lase,  if  granted,  must  be  on  more 
advantageous  terms  to  his  Lordship.  Yer  present  payments,  arable  and  meadow 
land  together,  average  something  about  two  pounds  five  or  six  per  acre." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Leslie,  "  always  paid  to  the  hour." 

"  And  if  it  please  ye,  sir,"  said  the  good  dame,  "  when  his  Lordship  was 
down  here,  he  made  us  a  faithful  promise,  on  the  honour  of  a  gentleman,  that 
he  'd  renew  the  lease  on  the  same  terms,  in  consideration  of  the  money  and 
pains  my  husband  bestowed  on  the  land." 


ANNIE    LESLIE.  23 

The  agent  turned  his  little  grey  eye  sharply  on  the  honest  creature,  and 
gave  a  grunt,  that  was  less  a  laugh  than  a  note  of  preparation  for  one,  observ- 
ing, "  May-be  he 's  lost  his  memory ;  for  there,  Mr.  Leslie,  is  the  proposal  he 
ordered  me  to  make  (he  threw  a  sheet  of  folded  foolscap  on  the  table),  so  you 
may  take  it  or  lave  it." 

He  was  preparing  to  quit  the  cottage,  when  his  eye  glanced  on  a  basket  of 
eggs,  that  Annie  had  arranged  to  set  under  a  favourite  hen.  —  "What  fine 
eggs !"  he  exclaimed ;  "  I  '11  take  two  or  three  to  show  my  wife."  And,  one 
after  another,  he  deposited  all  the  poor  girl's  embryo  chickens  in  his  capacious 
pockets. 

Leslie,  really  aroused  by  the  barefaced  impudence  of  the  act,  was  starting 
forward  to  prevent  it,  when  his  wife  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm ;  not  that  she  did 
not  sorrow  after  the  spoil,  but  she  had  a  point  to  gain. 

"  May-be,  sir,  ye  'd  joost  tell  me  the  Laird's  present  address ;  Annie,  put  it 
down  on  that  bit  paper." 

"  Tell  his  address ! — anything  ye  have  to  say  must  be  to  me,  good  woman. 
And  so  ye  write,  pretty  one ;  I  wonder  what  is  the  use  of  taaching  such  girls  as 
you  to  write :  but  ye  're  up  to  love-letters  before  this ;  ay,  ay,  ye  '11  make  the 
best  of  yer  black  eyes,  my  dear !"  With  this  insulting  speech,  the  low  man  in 
power  left  the  cottage. 

Bitter  was  the  anguish  felt  by  that  little  party.  The  father  sat,  his  hands 
supporting  his  head,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  exorbitant  demand  the  agent 
had  left  upon  his  table ;  large  tears  passed  slowly  down  Annie's  cheek ; 
and,  if  the  poor  mother  suffered  less  than  the  others,  it  was  because  she  talked 
more. 

"  Dinna  be  cast  doon,  Robert,"  said  she,  at  last,  to  her  husband ;  "  ye  hae  nae 
reason,  even  if  he  ask  sae  much  money  as  ye  say,  as  a  premium,  forbye  other 
matters ;  why,  there  are  as  gude  farms  elsewhere,  and  landlords  that  look  after 
their  tenants  themselves.  Oh,  that  wicked,  wicked  wretch ! — to  see  him  pocket 
the  eggs — and  his  speech  to  my  poor  Annie !" 

"  My  darling  girl !"  exclaimed  the  father,  pressing  his  daughter  to  his  bosom, 
where  he  held  her  long  and  anxiously. 

It  was  almost  impossible  for  Leslie  to  accede  to  the  terms  demanded :  four 
pounds  an  acre  for  the  farm,  a  heavy  fine,  and  both  duly-work,  and  duty-provi- 
sions, required  in  abundance. 

"Dinna  think  o't,  Robert,"  repeated  the  dame ;  "we'll  go  elsewhere,  and 
find  better  treatment.  If  ye  keep  it  at  that  rate  we  shall  all  starve."  But  the 
farmer's  heart  yearned  to  every  blade  of  grass  that  had  grown  beneath  his  eye : 
he  hoped  to  frustrate  the  intended  evil,  and  yet  keep  the  land.  His  crops  had 
been  prosperous,  his  cattle  healthy ;  then,  his  neighbours,  when,  through  Alick's 
agency,  they  found  how  matters  stood,  had,  with  the  genuine  Irish  feeling  that 
shines  more  brightly  in  adversity  than  in  prosperity,  come  forward,  affection- 
ately tendering  their  services. 


24  ANNIE    LESLIE. 

"  Sure,  the  cutting  the  hay  need  niver  cost  ye  a  brass  fardin,"  said  the  kind 
hearted  mower :  "  I  'm  half  my  time  idle,  and  I  may  jist  as  well  be  doing  some- 
thing for  you  as  nothing  for  myself;  so  don't  trouble  about  it,  sir,  dear;  we  like 
to  have  ye  among  us." 

Then  came  "  Nelly  the  Picker,"  as  the  spokeswoman  of  all  her  sisterhood. 
"  Don't  think  of  laving  us,  Mrs.  Leslie,  ma'am,  sure  every  one  of  us  '11  come  as 
usual,  but  widout  fee  or  reward,  excipt  the  heart  love,  and  do  twice  as  much  for 
that  as  for  the  dirty  money ;  and  I  '11  go  bail  the  pratees  will  be  as  well  picked, 
and  the  corn  as  well  reaped,  bound,  and  stacked  as  iver.  Sure,  though  we  didn't 
much  like  ye  at  first,  hasn't  Miss  Annie  grown  up  among  us,  born  as  she  is  on 
the  sod,  and  a  credit  to  it,  too,  God  be  praised !" 

These  were  all  very  gratifying  instances  of  pure  and  simple  affection :  in- 
deed, even  Andrew  Furlong  forgot  his  somerset  in  the  cabbage-bed,  and  posted 
down  to  the  farm  with  his  stocking  full  of  gold  and  silver  coins,  of  ancient  and 
modern  date,  which  were  all  at  Leslie's  service,  to  pay  the  premium  required 
by  the  agent  for  the  renewal  of  the  lease.  This  last  favour,  however,  the 
worthy  farmer  would  not  even  hear  of;  he,  therefore,  sold  a  great  part  of  his 
stock,  and,  to  the  annoyance  of  the  agent,  obtained  the  lease.  From  this  cir- 
cumstance, he  might  be  said  to  triumph  over  the  machinations  of  his  enemy ; 
but  matters  soon  changed  sadly :  the  family  was  as  industrious  as  ever ;  the 
same  steady  perseverance  on  the  farmer's  part ;  the  same  bustle  and  unweary- 
ing activity  on  that  of  the  good  dame ;  and,  though  poor  Annie's  cheek  was 
more  pale,  and  her  eyes  less  bright,  yet  did  she  unceasingly  labour  in  and  out 
of  their  small  dwelling.  Notwithstanding  all  these  exertions,  the  next  season 
was  a  bad  one ;  their  sheep  fell  off  in  the  rot,  their  pigs  had  the  measles,  their 
chickens  the  pip,  and  two  of  their  cows  died  in  calf.  Never  did  circumstances, 
in  the  little  space  of  six  months,  undergo  so  great  a  change.  Leslie's  silence 
amounted  almost  to  sullenness ;  his  wife  talked  much  of  their  ill-fortune ;  An- 
nie said  nothing ;  but  her  step  had  lost  its  elasticity,  her  figure  its  grace,  and 
her  voice  seldom  trolled  the  joyous,  or  even  the  mournful,  songs  of  her  native 
land  in  the  elder-bovver,  that,  before  the  departure  of  James  McCleary,  had 
rung  again  and  again  with  merry  laughter  and  music.  James  never  returned 
after  that  unfortunate  evening;  and  his  mother  had  only  twice  heard  from 
him  since  his  absence :  his  letters  were  brief — "He  had  gone,"  he  said,  "to 
sea,  to  enable  him  to  learn  something,  and  to  forget  much."  His  mother  and 
younger  brother  managed  the  farm  with  much  skill  and  attention  during  his 
absence.  No  token,  no  word  of  her  whom  he  had  dotingly  loved,  appeared 
in  his  letters.  It  was  evident  that  he  tried  to  think  of  her  as  a  heartless,  jilting 
woman,  unworthy  to  possess  the  affections  of  a  sensible  man ;  but  there  must 
have  been  times  when  the  remembrance  of  her  full  beauty,  of  her  frank  and 
generous  temper,  of  her  many  acts  of  charity  (and  in  these  she  was  never 
capricious),  came  upon  him; — then  the  last  scene  at  the  cottage  was  forgotten, 
and  he  remembered  alone  her  sweet  voice,  and  sweeter  look,  in  the  hay  mea- 
dow, when  he  cut  off  the  curling  braid  of  hair,  which,  doubtless,  rested  on 


ANNIE    LESLIE.  25 

his  bosom  in  all  his  wanderings.  And  then  he  refreshed  his  memory  by  gazing 
on  it,  in  the  clear  moonlight,  during  the  night  watches,  when  only  the  eye  of 
heaven  was  upon  him.  Let  no  one  imagine  that  such  love  is  too  refined  to 
throb  in  a  peasant's  bosom ;  trust  me,  it  is  not.  The  being  who  lives  amid 
the  beauties  of  nature,  although  he  may  not  express,  must  feel,  the  elevating, 
yet  gentle  influence  of  herb,  and  flower,  and  tree.  Many  a  time  have  I  heard 
the  ploughman  suspend  his  whistle,  to  listen  to  that  of  the  melodious  black- 
bird ;  and  well  do  I  remember  the  beautiful  expression  of  one  of  my  humblest 
neighbours,  when,  resting  on  his  hay-fork,  he  had  silently  watched  the  sun 
as  it  set  over  a  country  glowing  in  its  red  and  golden  light :  "  It  is  very 
grand,  yet  hard  to  look  upon,"  said  he ;  "  one  can  almost  think  it  God's  holy 
throne !" 

The  last  letter  that  reached  our  sailor-friend,  contained,  amongst  others  of 
similar  import,  the  following  passage  —  "  Ye  '11  be  sorry  to  hear,  James  (though 
it 's  nothing  to  ye  now),  that  times  are  turned  bad  with  the  Leslies ;  there  has 
been  a  dale  of  underhand  work  by  my  Lord's  agent ;  and  the  girl 's  got  a  cold, 
dismal  look.  My  heart  aches  for  the  poor  thing ;  for  her  mother  is  set  upon  her 
marrying  Andrew  Furlong,  which  she  has  no  mind  in  life  to." 

Gale-day  (as  the  rent-day  is  called  in  Ireland)  had  come  and  gone,  and  much 
sorrow  was  in  the  cottage  of  Robert  Leslie.  In  the  grey  twilight  he  sat  in  a 
darkened  corner  of  his  little  parlour,  the  very  atmosphere  of  which  appeared 
clouded ;  the  dame  stood  at  the  open  casement,  against  which  Annie  reclined 
more  like  a  stiffened  corpse  than  a  breathing  woman.  Andrew  Furlong  was 
seated  also  at  a  table,  looking  earnestly  on  the  passing  scene. 

"  Haven't  ye  seen,"  said  the  mother, — "  haven't  ye  seen,  Annie,  the  misery 
that 's  come  upon  us,  entirely  by  my  advice  being  no  minded  ?  And  are  ye 
goin'  tamely  to  see  us  turned  out  o'  house  and  hame,  when  we  have  na  the 
means  of  getting  anither  ?  I,  Annie,"  she  continued,  "  am  a'maist  past  my 
labour ;  ah,  my  bonny  bairn,  it  was  for  you  we  worked — for  you  we  toiled ;  your 
faither  an'  me  had  but  the  one  heart  in  that ;  and  if  the  Lord  Almighty  has 
pleased  to  take  it  frae  us,  it 's  na  reason  why  you  should  forget  how  ye  were 
still  foremost  in  your  parents'  love." 

Annie  answered  nothing. 

"  Speak  to  her,  Robert,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  she  disna  mind  me  noo." 

Annie  raised  her  eyes  reproachfully  to  her  mother's  face.  The  farmer  came 
forward, — he  kissed  the  marble  brow  of  his  pale  child,  and  she  rested  her  head 
on  his  shoulder.  As  he  turned  towards  her,  she  whispered,  "  Is  all,  indeed,  as 
bad  as  mother  says  ?" 

"Even  so,"  was  his  reply;  "unless  something  be  done,  to-morrow  we  shall 
have  no  home.     Annie,  it  is  to  shield  you  I  think  of  this ;  my  delicate,  fading 
flower,  how  could  you  labour  as  a  hired  servant  ?     And — God  in  his  mercy  look 
upon  us  !  —  I  should  not  be  able  to  find  a  roof  to  shelter  my  only  child  !" 
4 


26  ANNIE    LESLIE. 

"My  bairn,"  again  commenced  Mrs.  Leslie,  "sure  the  mother  that  gave 
ye  birth  can  wish  for  naething  sae  much  as  your  weel-doing;  and  sure  sic 
a  man  as  Maister  Furlong  could  na  fail  to  make  ye  happy.  All  the  goud 
your  faither  wants  he  will  gi'e  us  noo,  trusting  to  his  bare  word ;  to-rnor- 
row,  and  it  will  be  too  late;  —  all  these  things  sauld  —  the  sneers  of  that 
bitter  man  —  the  scorn  (for  poverty  is  aye  scorned)  of  a  cauld  warld  —  and, 
may-be,  your  faither  in  a  lanely  prison ;  eh,  child  —  what  could  ye  do  for  him 
then?" 

"Mother!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  starting,  with  convulsive  motion,  from  her 
father's  shoulder ;  "  say  no  more ;  here  —  a  promise  is  all  he  wants  to  prevent 
this — here  is  my  hand — give  it  where  you  please."  She  stretched  out  her  arm 
to  its  full  length  —  it  was  rigid  as  iron.  Furlong  advanced  to  take  it ;  and 
whether  Leslie  would  have  permitted  such  a  troth-plight  or  not,  cannot  now 
be  ascertained,  for  the  long  form  of  Alick  the  Traveller  stalked  abruptly  into 
the  room. 

"Asy,  asy,  for  God's  sake!  —  put  up  yer  hand,  Miss  Annie,  dear:  keep 
your  sate,  I  beg,  Mr.  Furlong;  no  rason  in  life  for  yer  rising;  all  of  ye  be 
asy.  Will  nobody  quiet  that  woman,  for  God's  sake  ?"  he  continued,  seeing 
that  the  dame  was,  naturally  enough,  angry  at  this  intrusion ;  "  first  let  me  say 
my  say,  and  be  off,  for  sorra  a  minute  have  I  to  waste  upon  ye.  Robert  Leslie 
by  name,  didn't  I,  onst  upon  a  time,  tell  ye  truth  ?  —  and  a  sore  hearing  it  was, 
sure  enough.  Well,  thin,  I  tell  it  ye  again,  and  if  it 's  not  true,  why  ye  may 
hang  me  as  high  as  Howth ;  —  don't  let  yer  daughter  mum  herself  away  after 
that  fashion.  Mister  Furlong,  ye  're  a  kind-hearted  man,  so  ye  are,  and  many 
a  bit  an'  a  sup  have  ye  bestowed  upon  me  and  the  baste  —  thank  ye  kindly  for 
that  same  —  but  yarra  a  much  sense  ye  have,  or  ye  wouldn't  be  looking  after 
empty  nuts:  —  what  the  divil  would  be  the  good  o' the  hand  o' that  cratur, 
widout  her  heart  ?  And  that  ye  '11  niver  have.  Mistress  Leslie,  ma'am,  honey, 
don't  be  after  blowing  me  up ;  —  now  jist  think  —  sure  I  know  that  ye  left  the 
bonny  hills  and  the  sweet-scented  broom  of  Scotland,  to  marry  that  English- 
man. And  ye  mind  the  beautiful  song  that  ye  sing,  far  before  any  one  I  ever 
heard — about  loving  in  youth,  and  thin  climbing  the  hill,  and  then  sleeping  at 
the  fut  of  it  —  John  Anderson,  ye  call  it:  wouldn't  ye  rather  have  yer  heart's 
first  love,  though  he 's  ould  and  grey  now,  than  a  king  upon  his  throne  ?  Ay, 
woman,  that  touches  ye !  And  do  ye  think  she  hasn't  some  o'  the  mother's  feel 
in  her  ?  Now,  Mister  Leslie,  don't — don't  any  of  ye  make  her  promise  to-night  ; 
ye  '11  bless  me  for  this,  even  you,  Mister  Andrew,  by  to-morrow  sunset ;  promise, 
Robert  Leslie." 

"  You  told  me  truth  before,"  said  the  bewildered  man,  "  and  I  have  no  right 

to  doubt  you  now — I  do  promise." Alick  strode  out  of  the  cottage ;  Andrew 

followed  like  an  enraged  turkey-cock,  and  the  family  were  left  again  in  solitude. 
The  words  of  the  fisherman  had  affected  Mrs.  Leslie  deeply :  she  had  truly 
fancied  she  was  seeking  her  child's  happiness ;  and,  perhaps  for  the  first  time, 


ANNIE    LESLIE.  27 

she  remembered  how  miserable  she  would  have  been  with  any  other  husband 
than  "  her  ain  gude-man." 

The  little  family  passed  the  night  almost  in  the  very  extremity  of  despair. 
"Such,"  said  Leslie,  afterwards,  "as  I  could  not  pass  again;  for  the  blood 
now  felt  as  if  frozen  in  my  veins  —  now  rushing  through  them  with  fearful 
•  rapidity  —  and,  as  my  head  rested  on  my  poor  wife's  shoulder,  the  throbbing 
of  my  bursting  temples  but  echoed  the  beating  of  her  agitated  heart."  The 
early  light  of  morning  found  Annie  in  a  heavy  sleep ;  arid  the  mid-day  sun 
glowed  as  brightly  as  if  it  illumined  the  pathway  of  princes,  on  three  or  four 
ill-looking  men,  who  entered  the  dwelling  of  the  farmer.  Their  business  was 
soon  commenced  -^-  it  was  a  work  of  heart-sickening  desolation.  On  Annie's 
pure  and  simple  bed  sat  one  of  the  officials,  noting  down  each  article  in  the 
apartment.  Leslie,  his  arms  folded,  his  lips  compressed,  his  forehead  gathered 
in  heavy  wrinkles  over  his  brow,  stood  firmly  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Mrs. 
Leslie  sat,  her  face  covered  with  her  apron  —  which  was  soon  saturated  by 
her  tears,  and  poor  little  Phillis  crouched  beneath  her  chair;  —  Annie  clung 
to  her  father's  arm ;  her  energies  were  roused  as  she  feelingly  appealed  to 
the  heartless  executors  of  the  law.  What  increased  the  wretchedness  of  the 
scene  was  the  presence  of  Mr.  Maley  himself,  who  seemed  to  exult  over  the 
misery  of  his  victims.  He  was  not,  however,  to  have  it  all  his  own  way ; 
several  of  the  more  spirited  neighbours  assembled,  and  forgot  their  own 
interests  in  their  anxiety  for  the  Leslies.  One  young  fellow  entered,  waving 
his  shilelah,  and  swearing,  in  no  measured  terms,  that  "  he  'd  spill  the  last 
drop  of  his  heart's  blood  afore  a  finger  should  be  laid  on  a  single  scrap  in  the 
house."  The  agent's  scowl  changed  into  a  sneer,  as  he  pointed  to  the  docu- 
ment he  held  in  his  hand.  This,  however,  was  no  argument  to  satisfy  our 
Irish  champion ;  and,  in  truth,  matters  would  have  taken  a  serious  turn,  but 
for  the  prompt  interference  of  an  old  man,  who  held  back  the  arms  of  the 
young  hero.  The  door  was  crowded  by  the  sympathizing  peasantry ;  some, 
by  tears,  and  many,  by  deep  and  awful  execrations,  testified  their  abhorrence 
of  the  man  "  dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority."  "  Oh  !"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Les- 
lie, "  oh !  that  I  had  never  lived  to  see  this  day  of  ruin  and  disgrace  !  Oh  !  An- 
nie, you  let  it  come  to " 

"  Hold,  woman !"  exclaimed  her  husband ;  "  remember  what  we  repeated 
last  night  to  each  other ;  remember  how  we  prayed,  when  this  poor  child  was 
sleeping,  as  in  the  sleep  of  death ;  remember  how  we  both  bethought  of  the  fair 
names  of  our  parents  —  how  you  told  me  of  the  men  of  your  kin  who  fought 
for  their  faith  among  your  native  Scottish  hills ;  and  my  own  ancestors,  who 
left  their  possessions  and  distant  lands  for  conscience  sake  !  Oh,  woman,  Janet, 
remember  the  words,  '  yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed 
begging  bread.' " 

Doubtless  Mrs.  Leslie  felt,  in  their  full  force,  these  sweet  sounds  of  consola- 
tion ;  —  again  she  hid  her  face,  and  wept.  It  is  in  the  time  of  affliction  that  the 
words  of  Scripture  pour  balm  upon  the  wounded  spirit ;  in  the  world's  turmoil 


28 


ANNIE    LESLIE. 


they  are  often  unhappily  forgotten ;  but  in  sorrow  they  are  sought  for,  even  as 
the  hart  seeketh  for  the  water-brooks. 

The  usually  placid  farmer  had  scarcely  given  vent  to  this  extraordinary  burst 
of  feeling,  when  there  was  a  bustle  outside  the  door,  which  was  speedily  ac- 
counted for.  A  post-chaise !  rattling  down  the  lane,  and  stopping  suddenly 
opposite  the  little  green  gate ;  from  off  the  crazy  bar,  propped  upon  two  rusty 
supporters,  in  front  of  the  creaking  vehicle,  sprang  our  old  friend,  Alick  the 
Traveller:  —  "Huzza!  huzza,  boys!  Ould  Ireland  for  ever!  Och!  but  the 
bones  o'  me  are  in  smithereens  from  the  shaking !  Huzza  for  justice  !  Boys, 
dear,  won't  ye  give  one  shout  for  justice  ? — 'tisn't  often  it  troubles  you. — Och  ! 
stand  out  o'  my  way,  for  I  'm  dancing  mad  !  Och ! — by  St.  Patrick  ! — Stand 
back,  ye  pack  o'  bogtrotters,  till  I  see  the  meeting.  Och ! — love  is  the  life  of  a 
nate. — Och !  my  heart's  as  big  as  a  whale !" 

While  honest  Alick  was  indulging  in  these  and  many  similar  exclamations, 
capering,  snapping  his  fingers,  jumping  (to  use  his  own  expression)  "  sky  high," 
and  shouting,  singing,  and  swearing,  with  might  and  main,  two  persons  had 
descended  from  the  carriage.  One,  a  tall,  slight,  gentlemanly  man,  fashionably 
enveloped  in  a  fur  travelling  cloak ;  the  other,  a  jovial  sailor,  whose  handsome 
face  was  expressive  of  the  deepest  anxiety  and  feeling. 

The  sailor  was  James  McCleary ;  the  gentleman — but  I  must  carry  my  story 
decorously  onwards. 

Poor  Annie !  she  had  suffered  too  much  to  coquet  it  again.  Whether  she 
fainted  or  not,  I  do  not  recollect ;  but  this  I  know,  that  she  leaned  her  weeping 
face  upon  James's  shoulder,  and  that  the  expression  of  his  countenance  varied 
to  an  almost  ludicrous  degree :  —  now  beaming  with  love  and  tenderness,  as  he 
looked  upon  the  maiden  —  now  speaking  of  "death  and  destruction"  to  the 
crest-fallen  agent.  The  gentleman  stood,  for  a  moment,  wondering  at  every- 
body, and  everybody  wondering  at  him.  At  last,  in  a  firm  voice,  he  said,  "  I 
stop  this  proceeding ;  and  I  order  you  (and  he  fixed  a  withering  glance  upon 
Maley) — I  do  not  recollect  your  name,  although  I  am  perfectly  acquainted  with 
your  nature — I  order  you,  sir,  to  leave  this  cottage ;  elsewhere  you  shall  ac- 
count for  your  conduct."  Maley  sank  into  his  native  insignificance  in  an  in- 
stant ;  but  then  impudence,  the  handmaid  of  knavery,  came  to  his  assistance : 
pulling  down  his  wig  with  one  hand,  and  holding  his  spectacles  on  his  ugly  red 
snub  nose  with  the  other,  he  advanced  to  where  the  gentleman  stood,  and  peer- 
ing up  into  his  face,  while  the  other  eyed  him  as  an  eagle  would  a  vile  carrion 
crow,  inquired,  with  a  quivering  lip,  that  ill  assorted  with  his  words'  bravery, — 
"  And  who  the  devil  are  you,  sir,  who  interferes  in  what  doesn't  by  any  manner 
of  means  concern  you  ?" 

"  As  you  wish  to  know,  sir,"  replied  the  gentleman,  removing  his  hat,  and 
looking  kindly  around  on  the  peasants,  "  I  am  brother  to  your  landlord !"  Oh, 
for  Wilkie,  to  paint  the  serio-comic  effect  of  that  little  minute !  —  the  look  of 
abashed  villany — the  glorious  feeling  that  suffused  the  honest  farmer's  counte- 


ANNIE    LESLIE.  29 

nance  —  the  uplifted  hands  and  ejaculations  of  Mrs.  Leslie  —  the  joyous  face 
of  Annie,  glistening  all  over  with  smiles  and  tears — the  hearty,  honest  shout 
of  the  villagers — and  even  the  merry  bark  of  little  Phillis: — then  Alick, 
striding  up  to  the  late  man  of  power,  his  long  back  curved  into  a  humiliated 
bend,  his  hand  and  arm  fully  extended,  his  right  foot  a  little  advanced,  while 
his  features  varied  from  the  most  contemptuous  and  satirical  expression  to  one 
of  broad  and  gratified  humour,  addressed  him,  with  mock  reverence :  "  Mister 
Maley,  sir,  will  ye  allow  me  (as  the  gintry  say)  the  pleasure  to  see  ye  out;  it's 
your  turn  now,  ould  boy,  though  ye  don't  know  a  fluke  from  a  jacky-dorey." 

"  Sir — my  Lord,"  stammered  out  the  crest-fallen  villain,  "  I  don't  really 
know  what  is  meant ;  I  acted  for  the  best — for  his  Lordship's  interest." 

"Peace,  man!"  interrupted  the  gentleman;  "I  do  not  wish  to  expose 
you;  there  is  my  brother's  letter:  to-morrow  I  will  see  you  at  his  house, 
where  his  servants  are  now  preparing  for  my  reception."  The  man  and  his 
minions  shrank  away  as  well  and  as  quietly  as  they  could ;  and  the  Leslies  had 
now  time  to  wonder  how  all  this  change  had  been  brought  about ;  while  the 
neighbours  lingered  around  the  door,  with  a  pardonable  curiosity,  to  "  ses 
the  last  of  it." 

"  Ye  may  thank  that  gentleman  for  it  all,"  said  James ;  "  besides  being 
brother  to  the  landlord,  I  had  the  honour  to  sarve  under  him  in  as  brave  a 
ship  as  ever  stept  the  sea ;  and  ye  mind  when  matters  were  going  hard  here, 
Alick  (God  for  ever  bless  him  for  it !)  turned  to  at  the  pen,  and  wrote  me  every 
particular,  and  all  about  the  agent's  wickedness,  and  (may  I  say  it,  Annie, 
now  ?)  yer  love  for  me :  and  how  out  o'  divilment  he  sent  the  ould  man  to  make 
love  to  you  that  sorrowful  evening — when  I  went  away — and  then  put  me  up 
to  catch  him ;  little  thinking  how  the  jealousy  would  drive  me  mad ;  well,  his 
honour,  the  Captain,  had  no  pride  in  him — " 

"  Stop,  my  brave  lad,  towards  you  I  could  have  none,"  exclaimed  the 
generous  officer;  "where  the  battle  raged  the  most,  you  were  at  my  side;  and 
when,  in  boarding  the  Frenchman,  I  was  almost  nailed  to  the  deck,  you — you 
rushed  forward,  and,  amid  death  and  danger,  bore  me,  sadly  wounded,  in  your 
arms,  back  to  my  gallant  ship."  He  extended  his  hand  to  the  young  Irishman, 
who  pressed  it  respectfully  to  his  lips. — "  To  see  the  like  o'  that  now,"  said 
Alick;  "to  see  him  shaking  hands  with  one  that's  as  good  as  a  lord!" — "I 
held  frequent  conversations  with  my  brave  friend,"  continued  the  Captain, 
"  and,  at  length,  he  enlightened  me  as  to  the  treatment  my  brother's  tenants 
experienced  from  the  agent;  I  am  come  down  expressly  to  see  justice 
done  to  all,  who,  I  regret  to  find,  have  suffered  from  the  ill-effects  of  the 
absentee  system.  Miss  Leslie,  I  am  sorry  to  lose  so  good  a  sailor,  but  I  only 
increase  my  number  of  friends  when  I  resign  James  McCleary  to  his  rightful 
commander." 

"Och!  my  dears,"  exclaimed  Alick ;  "it's  as  good  as  a  play — a  beautiful 
play:  and  there's  honest  Andrew  coming  over;  don't  toss  him  in  the  cab- 
bage-bed, James,  honey,  this  time.  And,  James,  dear,  there's  your  ould 


30 


ANNIE    LESLIE. 


mother  running  up  the  lane, — well,  ould  as  she  is,  she  bates  Andrew  at  the 
step.  Och !  Miss  Annie,  don't  ye  be  looking  down  after  that  fashion.  And, 
sir,  my  Lord,  if  yer  honour  plases,  ye  won't  forget  the  little  bit  o'  ground  for 
the  baste." 

"  Everything  I  have  promised  I  will  perform,"  said  the  young  man,  as  he 
withdrew ;  an  example  which  I  must  follow,  assuring  all  who  read  my  story 
that,  however  strange  it  may  appear,  Annie  made  an  excellent  wife,  never 
flirted  the  least  bit  in  the  world,  except  with  her  husband;  and  practically 
remembered  her  father's  wise  and  favourite  text — "  /  have  been  ycmng  and 
now  am  old,  yet  have  I  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging 
bread." 


LARKY  MOORE. 


HINK  of  to-morrow !" — that  is  what  few  Irish  pea- 
sants ever  do,  with  a  view  of  providing  for  it :  at  least 
few  with  whom  I  have  had  opportunities  of  being  ac- 
quainted. They  will  think  of  anything — of  everything, 
but  that.  There  is  Larry  Moore,  for  example : — who, 
that  has  ever  visited  my  own  pastoral  village  of  Ban- 
now,  is-  unacquainted  with  Larry,  the  Bannow  boat- 
man—  the  invaluable  Larry  —  who,  tipsy  or  sober, 
asleep  or  awake,  rows  his  boat  with  undeviating  power 
and  precision  1  —  He,  alas !  is  a  strong  proof  of  the 
truth  of  my  observation.  Look  at  him  on  a  fine  sunny 
day  in  June.  The  cliffs  that  skirt  the  shore,  where  his 
boat  is  moored,  are  crowned  with  wild  furze ;  while, 
here  and  there,  a  tuft  of  white  or  yellow  broom,  sprout- 
ing a  little  above  the  bluish  green  of  its  prickly  neigh- 
bour, waves  its  blossoms,  and  flings  its  fragrance  to 
the  passing  breeze.  Down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  rippling  waves  is  almost  one 
unbroken  bed  of  purple  thyme,  glowing  and  beautiful ; — and  there  Larry's  goat, 
with  her  two  sportive  kids — sly,  cunning  rogues  ! — find  rich  pasture — now  nib- 
bling the  broom-blossoms,  now  sporting  amid  the  furze,  and  making  the  scenery 
re-echo  with  their  musical  bleating.  The  little  island  opposite,  Larry  considers 
his  own  particular  property ;  not  that  a  single  sod  of  its  bright  greenery  belongs 
to  him — but,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  Sure  it 's  all  as  one  my  own — don't  I  see 
it — don't  I  walk  upon  it — and  the  very  water  that 's  set  in  is  my  own ;  for  sorra 
a  one  can  put  foot  on  it  widout  me  and  '  the  coble,'  that  have  been  hand  and 
glove  as  good  as  forty  years."  But  look,  I  pray  you,  upon  Larry :  —  there  he 
lies,  stretched  in  the  sunlight,  at  full  length,  on  the  firm  sand,  like  a  man-porpoise 
— sometimes  on  his  back — then  slowly  turning  on  his  side — but  his  most  usual 
attitude  is  a  sort  of  reclining  position  against  that  flat  grey  stone,  just  at  high- 
water  mark ;  he  selects  it  as  his  constant  resting-place,  because  (again  to  use  his 
own  words)  "  the  tide,  bad  cess  to  it !  was  apt  to  come  fast  in  upon  a  body,  and 
there  was  a  dale  of  throuble  in  moving ;  but  even  if  one  chanced  to  fall  asleep, 
sorra  a  morsel  of  harm  the  salt  water  could  do  ye  on  the  grey  stone,  where  a 
living  merwoman  sat  every  new-year's  night  combing  her  black  hair,  and  mak- 
ing beautiful  music  to  the  wild  waves,  who,  consequently,  trated  her  sate  wid 
grate  respict — why  not  ?"  There,  then,  is  Larry — his  chest  leaning  on  the  mer- 
maid's stone,  as  we  call  it  —  his  long,  bare  legs  stretched  out  behind,  kicking, 
occasionally,  as  a  gad-fly,  or  merry-hopper,  skips  about  what  it  naturally  con- 
siders lawful  prey : — his  lower  garments  have  evidently  once  been  trowsers — 

(31) 


32  LARRY    MOORE. 

blue  trowsers ;  but  as  Larry,  when  in  motion,  is  amphibious,  they  have  experi- 
enced the  decaying  effects  of  salt  water,  and  now  only  descend  to  the  knee 
where  they  terminate  in  unequal  fringes.  Indeed,  his  frieze  jacket  is  no  great 
things,  being  much  rubbed  at  the  elbows  —  and  no  wonder ;  for  Larry,  when 
awake,  is  ever  employed,  either  in  pelting  the  sea-gulls  (who,  to  confess  the  truth, 
treat  him  with  very  little  respect),  rowing  his  boat,  or  watching  the  circles  formed 
on  the  surface  of  the  calm  waters  by  the  large  or  small  pebbles  he  throws  into 
it ;  and  as  Larry  of  course,  rests  his  elbow  on  the  rocks,  while  performing  these 
exploits,  the  sleeves  must  wear,  for  frieze  is  not  "  impenetrable  stuff."  His  hat 
is  a  natural  curiosity,  composed  of  sun-burned  straw,  banded  by  a  misshapen 
sea-ribbon,  and  garnished  by  "delisk,"  red  and  green,  his  "cutty  pipe"  stuck 
through  a  slit  in  the  brim,  which  bends  it  directly  over  the  left  eye,  and  keeps  it 
"  quite  handy  widout  any  trouble."  His  bushy,  reddish  hair  persists  in  obsti- 
nately pushing  its  way  out  of  every  hole  in  his  extraordinary  hat,  or  clusters 
strangely  over  his  Herculean  shoulders,  and  a  low-furrowed  brow,  very  unpro- 
mising to  the  eye  of  a  phrenologist : — in  truth,  Larry  has  somewhat  of  a  dogged 
expression  of  countenance,  which  is  relieved,  at  times,  by  the  humorous  twin- 
kle of  his  little  grey  eyes,  pretty  much  in  the  manner  that  a  star  or  two  illume 
the  dreary  blank  of  a  cloudy  November  night.  The  most  conspicuous  part  of  his 
attire,  however,  is  an  undressed  wide  leather  belt,  that  passes  over  one  shoulder, 
and  then  under  another  strap  of  the  same  material  that  encircles  his  waist ;  from 
this  depends  a  rough  wooden  case,  containing  his  whiskey-botttle ;  a  long,  nar- 
row knife ;  pieces  of  rope,  of  varied  length  and  thickness ;  and  a  pouch  which 
contains  the  money  he  earns  at  his  "  vocation." 

Our  portrait  of  him  is  sketched  on  the  beach  directly  under  the  old  church- 
yard of  Bannow  —  upon  the  roof  of  one  of  the  houses,  it  may  be,  for  scores  of 
them  are  buried  beneath  the  sand;  and  the  chimney  of  the  ancient  town-hall 
still  exists  a  mass  of  coarse  mason- work  among  the  graves.  The  surrounding 
scenery  is  more  interesting,  perhaps,  than  beautiful ;  though,  to  me,  there  is  the 
beauty  of  association  in  every  object  within  ken.  But  the  curiosity,  even  of  a 
stranger,  may  be  excited  by  the  distant  promontory  of  Bag-an-bun,  where — 

"Irelonde  was  lost  and  won," 

seen  to  great  advantage  from  this  particular  spot    We  may  not  moralize,  how 
ever ;  our  intention  is  to  converse  with  Larry. 
"  Good  morrow,  Larry !" 

"  Good  morrow  kindly,  my  lady !  may-be  ye  're  going  across  ?" 
"  No,  thank  ye,  Larry : — but  there 's  a  silver  sixpence  for  good  luck." 
"  Ough !  God's  blessing  be  about  ye  ! — I  said  so  to  my  woman  this  morning, 
and  she  bothering  the  sowl  out  o'  me  for  money,  as  if  I  could  make  myself  into 
silver,  let  alone  brass : — asy,  says  I,  what  trouble  ye  take  !  sure  we  had  a  good 
dinner  yesterday ;  and  more  by  tokens,  the  grawls  were  so  plased  wid  the  mate 
— the  craturs ! — sorra  morsel  o'  pratee  they  'd  put  into  their  mouths ; — and  we  '11 
have  as  good  a  one  to-day." 


LARRY    MOORE. 


33 


"  The  ferry  is  absolutely  filled  with  fish,  Larry,  if  you  would  only  take  the 
trouble  to  catch  it !" 

"  Is  it  fish  ?  Ough !  sorra  fancy  I  have  for  fasting-mate — besides,  it 's  mighty 
watery,  and  a  dale  of  trouble  to  catch.  A  grate  baste  of  a  cod  lept  into  my 
boat  yesterday,  and  I  lying  just  here,  and  the  boat  close  up :  I  thought  it  would 
ha'  sted  asy  while  I  hollooed  to  Tom,  who  was  near  breaking  his  neck  after  the 
samphire  for  the  quality,  the  gomersal ! — but,  my  jewil !  it  was  whip  and  away 
wid  it  all  in  a  minit — back  to  the  water. — Small  loss !" 

"  But,  Larry,  it  would  have  made  an  excellent  dinner." 

"  Sure  I  'm  after  telling  yer  ladyship  that  we  had  a  rale  mate  dinner,  by  grate 
good  luck,  yesterday." 

"  But  to-day,  by  your  own  confession,  you  had  nothing." 

"  Sure  you  've  just  given  me  sixpence." 

"  But  suppose  I  had  not !" 

"  Where 's  the  good  of  thinking  that,  now  ?" 

"  Oh,  Larry,  I  'm  afraid  you  never  think  of  to-morrow  /" 

"  There 's  not  a  man  in  the  whole  parish  of  Bannow  thinks  more  of  it  than  I 
do,"  responded  Larry,  raising  himself  up ;  "  and,  to  prove  it  to  ye,  madam  dear, 
we  '11  have  a  wet  night— I  see  the  sign  of  it,  for  all  the  sun 's  so  bright,  both  in 
the  air  and  the  water." 
5 


34 


LARRY  MOORE. 


"  Then,  Larry,  take  my  advice ;  go  home  and  mend  the  great  hole  that  is  in 
the  thatch  of  your  cabin." 

"  Is  it  the  hole  1 — where 's  the  good  of  losing  time  about  it  now,  when  the 
weather 's  so  fine  ?" 

"  But  when  the  rain  comes  ?" 

"  Lord  bless  ye,  my  lady !  sure  I  can't  hinder  the  rain  !  and  sure  it 's  fitter  for 
me  to  stand  under  the  roof  in  a  dry  spot,  than  to  go  out  in  the  teams  to  stop  up 
a  taste  of  a  hole.  Sorra  a  drop  comes  through  it  in  dry  weather.'' 

"  Larry,  you  truly  need  not  waste  so  much  time ;  it  is  ten  chances  to  one  if 
you  get  a  single  fare  to-day ;  —  and  here  you  stay,  doing  nothing.  You  might 
usefully  employ  yourself,  by  a  little  foresight." 

"  Would  ye  have  me  desert  my  trust  ?  Sure  I  must  mind  the  boat.  But,  God 
bless  ye,  ma'am  darlint !  don't  be  so  hard  intirely  upon  me ;  for  I  get  a  dale  o' 
blame  I  don't  by  no  manner  of  means  desarve.  My  wife  turns  at  me  as  wicked 
as  a  weazel,  becase  I  gave  my  consint  to  our  Nancy's  marrying  Matty  Keogh ; 
and  she  says  they  were  bad  to  come  together  on  account  that  they  hadn't  enough 
to  pay  the  priest ;  and  the  end  of  it  is,  that  the  girl  and  a  grandchild  are  come 
back  upon  us ;  and  the  husband  is  off — God  knows  where  !" 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  Larry ;  but  your  son  James,  by  this  time,  must  be 
able  to  assist  you." 

"  There  it  is  again,  my  lady  !  James  was  never  very  bright — and  his  mother 
was  always  at  him,  plaguing  his  life  out  to  go  to  Mister  Ben's  school,  and  say- 
ing a  dale  about  the  time  to  come ;  but  I  didn't  care  to  bother  the  cratur ;  and 
I  'm  sorry  to  say  he 's  turned  out  rather  obstinate — and  even  the  priest  says  it 's 
becase  I  never  think  of  to-morrow" 

"  I  'm  glad  to  find  the  priest  is  of  my  opinion :  but,  tell  me,  have  you  fatted 
the  pig  Mr.  Herriott  gave  you  ?" 

"  Oh !  my  bitter  curse  (axing  yer  pardon,  my  lady)  be  upon  all  the  pigs  in 
and  out  of  Ireland !  That  pig  has  been  the  ruin  of  me ;  it  has  such  a  taste  for 
eating  young  ducks  as  never  was  in  the  world ;  and  I  always  tether  him  by  the 
leg  when  I  'm  going  out ;  but  he 's  so  'cute  now,  he  cuts  the  tether." 

"  Why  not  confine  him  in  a  sty  ? — you  are  close  to  the  quarry,  and  could 
build  one  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Is  it  a  sty  for  the  likes  of  him !  cock  him  up  wid  a  sty !  Och,  Musha!  Mu- 
sha !  the  tether  keeps  him  asy  for  the  day." 

"  But  not  for  the  morrow,  Larry." 

"  Now  ye  're  at  me  agin ! — you  that  always  stood  my  friend.  Meal-a-murder ! 
if  there  isn't  Rashleigh  Jones  making  signs  for  the  boat !  Oh !  ye  're  in  a  hurry, 
are  ye  ? — well,  ye  must  wait  till  yer  hurry  is  over ;  I  *m  not  going  to  hurry  my- 
self, wid  sixpence  in  my  pocket,  for  priest  or  minister." 

"  But  the  more  you  earn  the  better,  Larry." 

"  Sure  I  've  enough  for  to-day." 

"  But  not  for  to-morrow,  Larry." 

"True  for  ye,  ma'am  dear;  though  people  take   a  dale  o'  trouble,  I'm 


LARRY    MOORE.  35 

thinking,  when  they've  full  and  plenty  at  the  same  time;  and  I  don't  like 
bothering  about  it  then.  Sure,  I  see  ye  plain  enough,  Master  Rashleigh. 
God  help  me !  I  broke  the  oar  yesterday,  and  never  thought  to  get  it  mended  ; 
and  my  head's  splitting  open  with  the  pain — I  took  a  drop  too  much  last  night, 
and  that  makes  me  fit  for  nothing " 

"  On  the  marrow,  Larry." 

"Faith!  ma'am  dear,  you're  too  bad.  Oh  dear!  if  I  had  the  sense  to  set 
the  lobster-pots  last  night,  what  a  power  I'd  ha'  caught! — they're  dancing  the 
hays  merrily  down  there,  the  cowardly  blackguards !  but  I  didn't  think — " 

"  Of  the  marrow,  Larry." 

"Oh,  then,  let  me  alone,  lady  dear!  What  will  I  do  wid  the  oar!  Jim 
Connor  gave  me  a  beautiful  piece  of  strong  rope  yesterday,  but  I  didn't  want 
it;  and — I  believe  one  of  the  childer  got  hold  of  it — I  didn't  think — " 

"  Of  the  morrow,  Larry." 

"  By  dad,  I  have  it! — I  can  poke  the  coble  on  with  this  ould  pitchfork; 
there's  not  much  good  in  it;  but  never  heed — it's  the  master's,  and  he's  too 
much  of  a  jentleman  to  mind  trifles;  though  I'm  thinking  times  a'n't  as  good 
wid  him  now  as  they  used  to  be ;  for  Barney  Clarey  tould  Nelly  Parrell,  who 
tould  Tom  Lavery,  who  tould  it  out  forenint  me,  and  a  dale  more  genteel  men, 
who  were  taking  a  drop  o'  comfort  at  St.  Patrick's,  as  how  they  bottle  the 
whiskey,  and  salt  the  mate,  at  the  big  house ;  and  if  that  isn't  a  bad  sign,  I  don't 
know  what  is;  —  though  we  may  thank  the  English  housekeeper  for  it,  I'm 
thinking — wid  her  beaver  bonnet,  and  her  yellow  silk  shawl,  that  my  wife  (who 
knows  the  differ)  says,  after  all,  it's  only  calico-cotton." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  bottling  the  whiskey  and  salting  the  meat,  Larry  ?" 

"  Now,  don't  be  coming  over  us  after  that  fashion ;  may-be  ye  don't  know, 
indeed  ?  Sure  the  right  way,  my  lady,  is  to  have  the  whiskey  on  draught ;  and 
then  it's  so. refreshing,  of  a  hot  summer's  day,  to  take  a  good  hearty  swig;  and 
in  winter — by  the  powers!  ma'am,  honey,  let  me  just  take  the  liberty  of  advising 
you  never  to  desart  the  whiskey ;  it  '11  always  keep  the  could  out  of  yer  heart, 
and  the  trouble  from  yer  eye.  Sure  the  clargy  take  to  it,  and  lawyers  take  to 
it,  far  before  new  milk;  and  his  holiness  the  pope — God  bless  him! — to  say 
nothing  of  the  king  (who  is  the  first  king  of  hearts  we  ever  had),  who  drinks 
nothing  but  Innishown — which,  to  my  taste,  hasn't  half  the  fire  of  the  rale 
potteen.  It's  next  to  a  deadly  sin  to  bottle  whiskey  in  a  jentleman's  house  ; — and, 
as  to  salting  mate ; — sure  the  ould  ancient  Irish  fashion — the  fashion  of  the  good 
ould  times — is  just  to  kill  the  baste,  and  thin  hang  it  by  the  legs  in  a  convanient 
place ;  and  every  one  can  take  a  part  of  what  they  like  best." 

"  But  do  you  know  that  the  English  think  of  to-morrow,  Larry  ?" 

"Ay,  the  tame  negres!  that's  the  way  they  get  rich,  and  sniff  at  the  world, 
my  jewil ;  and  they  no  oulder  in  it  than  Henry  the  Second ;  for  sure,  if  there 
had  been  English  before  his  time,  it's  long  sorry  they'd  ha'  been  to  let  Ireland 
so  long  alone." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Larry  ?" 


36  LARRY  MOORE. 

"  I'll  prove  it  to  ye,  my  lady,  if  ye '11  jist  wait  till  I  bring  over  that  impatient 
chap,  Rashleigh  Jones,  who's  ever  running  after  the  day,  as  if  he  hadn't  a  bit 
to  eat: — there,  d'ye  see  him? — he's  dancing  mad — he  may  just  as  well  take 
it  asy.  It's  such  as  him  give  people  the  feaver.  There's  that  devil  of  a  goat 
grinning  at  me ;  sorra  a  drop  of  milk  can  we  get  from  her,  for  she  won't  stand 
quiet  for  a  body  to  catch  her;  and  my  wife's  not  able,  and  I'm  not  willing,  to 
go  capering  over  the  cliffs.  Never  mind !" 

At  last,  Larry  and  his  boat  are  off,  by  the  assistance  of  the  pitchfork,  and 
most  certainly  he  does  not  hurry  himself;  but  where  is  Rashleigh  going  to '( 
As  I  live !  he  has  got  into  Mr.  Dorkin's  pleasure-boat,  that  has  just  turned  the 
corner  of  the  island,  and  will  be  at  this  side  before  Larry  gets  to  the  other. 
Larry  will  not  easily  pardon  this  encroachment ;  not  because  of  the  money, 
but  because  of  his  privilege.  I  have  heard  it  rumoured  that,  if  Larry  does 
not  become  more  active,  he  will  lose  his  situation ;  but  I  cannot  believe  it ;  he 
is,  when  fairly  on  the  water,  the  most  careful  boatman  in  the  county ;  and 
permit  me  to  mention,  in  sotto  voce,  that  his  master  could  not  possibly  dismiss 
him  on  the  charge  of  heedlessness,  because  he  himself  once  possessed  unencum- 
bered property  by  field  and  flood,  wooded  hills,  verdant  vales,  and  pure  gushing 
rivers.  Those  fair  heritages  are,  however,  passing  into  the  hands  of  other 
proprietors ;  and  the  hair  of  the  generous,  good-natured  landlord  has  become 
white,  and  sorrow  has  furrowed  his  brow,  long  before  sixty  summers  have 
glowed  upon  his  head.  His  children,  too,  do  not  hold  that  station  in  society  to 
which  their  birth  entitles  them ;  and,  latterly,  he  has  not  been  so  often  on  the 
grand  jury,  nor  at  the  new  member's  dinners.  The  poor  love  him  as  well  as 
ever ;  but  the  rich  have  neglected,  in  a  great  degree,  his  always  hospitable 
board.  The  parish  priest  told  me,  in  confidence,  that  all  the  change  originated 
in  our  excellent  friend's  never  thinking  of  TO-MORROW. 


KATE  CONNOR 


RUST  me,  your  Lordship's  opinion  is  unfounded,"  said 
the  Lady  Helen  Graves ;  and,  as  the  noble  girl  uttered 
the  words  her  eye  brightened,  and  her  cheek  flushed 
with  a  better  feeling  than  high-born  "  fashionables" 
generally  deem  necessary. 

"  Indeed  !"  exclaimed  the  Earl,  looking  up  at  the  ani- 
mated features  of  his  god-daughter,  "  and  how  comes 
my  pretty  Helen  to  know  aught  of  the  matter? — me- 
thinks  she  has  learned  more  than  the  mysteries  of  harp 
and  lute,  or  the  soft  tones  of  the  Italian  and  Spanish 
tongues.  Come,"  he  continued  "  sit  down  on  this  soft 
Ottoman,  and  prove  the  negative  to  my  assertion — 
ttfat  the  Irish  act  only  from  impulse,  not  from  prin- 
ciple." 

"  How  long  can  an  impulse  last  ?"  inquired  the  lady, 
as  she  seated  herself  at  her  god-father's  feet,  just  where  he  wished,  playfully 
resting  her  rosy  cheek  on  his  hand,  as  she  inquired — "  tell  me,  first,  how  long  an 
impulse  can  last  ?" 

(37) 


38  KATE    CONNOR. 

"  It  is  only  a  momentary  feeling,  my  love ;  although  acting  upon  it  may 
embitter  a  long  life. 

"  But  an  impulse  cannot  last  for  a  month,  can  it  ?  Then  I  am  quite  safe ;  and 
now  your  Lordship  must  listen  to  a  true  tale,  and  must  suffer  me  to  tell  in  my 
way,  brogue  and  all;  and,  moreover,  must  have  patience.  It  is  about  a  peasant 
maiden,  whom  I  dearly  love— ay,  and  respect  too,  and  whenever  I  think  of  sweet 
4  Kate  Connor,'  I  bless  God  that  the  aristocracy  of  virtue  ( if  I  dare  use  such  a 
phrase)  may  be  found,  in  all  its  lustre,  in  an  Irish  cabin. 

"  It  was  on  one  of  the  most  chilly  of  all  November  days,  the  streets  and  houses 
filled  with  fog,  and  the  few  stragglers  in  the  square,  in  their  dark  clothes,  looking 
like  dirty  demons  in  a  smoky  pantomime,  that  papa  and  myself,  at  that  outre 
season,  when  everybody  is  out  of  town,  arrived  here,  from  Brighton ;  he  had 
been  summoned  on  business,  and  I  preferred  accompanying  him  to  remaining  on 
the  coast  alone.  *  Not  at  home  to  any  one,'  were  the  orders  issued  when  we 
sat  down  to  dinner.  The  cloth  had  been  removed,  and  papa  was  occupying  him- 
self in  looking  over  some  papers ;  from  his  occasional  frown  I  fancied  they  were 
'not  of  the  most  agreeable  nature ;  at  last  I  went  to  my  harp,  and  played  one  of 
the  airs  of  my  country,  of  which  I  knew  he  was  particularly  fond.  He  soon 
left  his  seat,  and  kissing  my  forehead  with  much  tenderness,  said,  « That  strain  is 
too  melancholy  for  me  just  now,  Helen,  for  I  have  received  no  very  pleasant 
news  from  my  Irish  agent.'  I  expressed  my  sincere  sorrow  at  the  circumstance, 
and  ventured  to  make  some  inquiries  as  to  the  intelligence  that  had  arrived.  « I 
cannot  understand  it,'  he  said ;  '  when  we  resided  there,  it  was  only  from  the 
papers  that  I  heard  of  the — dreadful  murders,  horrible  outrages,  and  malicious 
burnings.  All  around  us  was  peace  and  tranquillity;  my  rents  were  as  punctually 
paid  as  in  England ;  for  in  both  countries  a  tenant,  yes,  and  a  good  tenant,  too, 
may  be  sometimes  in  arrears.  I  made  allowance  for  the  national  character  of 
the  people ;  and,  while  I  admired  the  contented  and  happy  faces  that  smiled  as 
joyously  over  potatoes  and  milk  as  if  the  board  had  been  covered  with  a  feast 
of  venison,  I  endeavoured  to  make  them  desire  more,  and  then  sought  to  attach 
them  to  me  by  supplying  their  new  wants.' 

" '  And,  dear  sir,  you  succeeded,'  I  said ;  '  never  were  hearts  more  grateful — 
never. were  tears  more  sincere,  than  theirs,  when  we  left  them  to  the  care  of 
that  disagreeable,  ill-looking  agent.' 

" '  Hold,  Lady  Mal-a-pert !'  interrupted  my  father,  sternly ;  '  I  selected  Mr. 
O'Brian :  you  can  know  nothing  of  his  qualifications.  I  believe  him  to  be  an 
upright,  I  fear  me,  a  stern  man ;  and  I  apprehend  he  has  been  made  the  tool  of 
a  party.' 

."  •  Dear  papa,  I  wish  you  would  again  visit  the  old  castle.  A  winter  among 
my  native  mountains  would  afford  me  more  pure  gratification  than  the  most  suc- 
cessful season  in  London.'  My  father  smiled,  and  shook  his  head.  '  The  rents 

are  now  so  difficult  to  collect,  that  I  fear '  he  paused,  and  then  added,  abruptly, 

'  it  is  very  extraordinary,  often  as  I  mentioned  it  to  O'Brien,  that  I  can  receive 
no  information  as  to  the  Connors.  You  have  written  frequently  to  your  poor 


KATE    CONNOR.  39 

nurse,  and  she  must  have  received  the  letters — I  sent  them  over  with  my  own, 
and  they  have  been  acknowledged !'  He  had  scarcely  finished  this  sentence, 
when  we  heard  the  porter  in  loud  remonstrance  with  a  female,  who  was  endea- 
vouring to  force  her  way  through  the  hall.  I  half  opened  the  library-door,  where 
we  were  sitting,  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  the  interruption.  '  Ah,  then,  sure,  ye 
wouldn't  have  the  heart  to  turn  a  poor  crathur  from  the  door — that 's  come  sich 
a  way  jist  to  spake  tin  words  to  his  Lordship's  glory !  And  don't  tell  me  that 
my  Lady  Hilin  wouldn't  see  me,  and  she  to  the  fore.'  It  was  enough ;  I  knew 
the  voice  of  my  nurse's  daughter ;  and  would,  I  do  think,  have  kissed  her  with  all 
my  heart,  but  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and  clasping  my  hand  firmly  between  hers, 
exclaimed,  while  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  and  sobs  almost  choked  her 
utterance — «  Holy  Mary !  Thank  God  ! — 'T  is  herself,  sure  ! — though  so  beau- 
tiful ! — and  no  ways  proud  ! — and  I  will  have  justice  !'  And  then,  in  a  subdued 
voice,  she  added — '  Praise  to  the  Lord  ! — his  care  niver  left  me ;  and  I  could  die 

contint  this  minute — only  for  you,  mother,  dear ! — yerself  only — and '     Ou; 

powdered  knaves,  I  perceived,  smiled  and  sneered,  when  they  saw  Kate 
Connor  seated  that  evening  by  my  side— and  my  father  (heaven  bless  him  for 
it !)  opposite  to  us  in  his  great  arm-chair,  listening  to  the  story  that  Kate  had  to 
unfold. 

" '  Whin  ye's  left  us,  we  all  said  that  the  winter  was  come  in  arnest,  an  that 
the  summer  was  gone  for  ever.  Well,  rny  Lord,  we  struv  to  plase  the  agint, 
why  not  ? — sure  he  was  the  master  ye  set  over  us  ! — but  it  doesn't  become  the 
likes  o'  me,  nor  wouldn't  be  manners,  to  turn  my  tongue  agin  him,  and  he  made 
as  good  as  a  gintleman,  to  be  sure,  by  yer  Lordship's  notice — which  the  whole 
counthry  knew  he  was  not  afore,  either  by  birth  or  breeding.  Well,  my  lady 
— sure  if  ye  put  a  sod  o'  turf — saving  yer  presence — in  a  goold  dish,  it 's  only  a 
turf  still ;  and  he  must  ha'  been  Ould  Nick's  born  child  (Lord  save  us  !)  when  yer 
honour's  smile  couldn't  brighten  him  !  And  it 's  the  truth  I  'm  telling,  and  no  lie ; 
— first  of  all,  the  allowance  to  my  mother  was  stopped  for  damage  the  pig  did 
to  the  new  hedges ;  and  then  we  were  forced  to  give  our  best  fowl  as  a  compli- 
ment to  Mr.  O'Brian — because  the  goat  (and  the  crathur  without  a  tooth !)  they 
said,  skinned  the  trees ;  then  the  priest  (yer  Lordship  minds  Father  Lavery)  and 
the  agint  quarrelled,  and  so — out  o'  spite — he  set  up  a  school,  and  would  make 
all  the  childer  go  to  larn  there ;  and  thin  the  priest  hindered — and  to  be  sure  we 
stud  by  the  church — and  so  there  was  nothin'  but  fighting ;  and  the  boys  gave 
over  work,  seeing  that  the  tip-tops  didn't  care  how  things  went — only  abusing 
each  other.  But  it  isn't  that,  I  should  be  bothering  yer  kind  honours  wid.  My 
brother,  near  two  years  agone,  picked  up  wid  the  hoith  of  bad  company — God 
knows  how  ! — and  got  above  us  all — so  grand-like — wearing  a  new  coat,  and  a 
watch,  and  a  jewil  ring ! — so,  whin  he  got  the  time  o'  day  in  his  pocket,  he  wouldn't 
look  at  the  same  side  of  the  way  we  wint ;  well,  lady  dear,  this  struck  to  my 
mother's  heart — yet  it  was  only  the  beginning  of  trouble — he  was  found  in  the 
dead  o'  night — (continued  poor  Kate,  her  voice  trembling) — but  ye  hard  it  all — 
't  was  in  the  papers — and  he  was  sint  beyant  seas.  Och !  many 's  the  night  we 


40  KATE    CONNOR. 

have  spint  crying  to  think  of  that  shame — or,  on  our  bare,  bended  knees,  praying 
that  God  might  turn  his  heart.-  Well,  my  lady,  upon  that,  Mr.  O'Brien  made  no 
more  ado,  but  said  we  were  a  seditious  family,  and  that  he  had  yer  Lordship's 
warrant  to  turn  us  out ;  and  that  the  cabin— the  riate  little  cabin  ye  gave  to  my 
mother — was  to  go  to  the  gauge  r.' 

"  *  He  did  not  dare  to  say  that !'  interrupted  my  father,  proudly;  '  he  did  not 
dare  to  use  my  name  to  a  falsehood  !' 

" '  The  word— the  very  word  I  spoke !'  exclaimed  Kate.  « Mother  says  I,  his 
Lordship  would  niver  take  back,  for  the  sin  of  the  son,  what  he  gave  to  the 
mother !  Sure  it  was  hard  upon  her  grey  hairs  to  see  her  own  boy  brought  to 
shame,  without  being  turned  out  of  her  little  place,  whin  the  snow  was  on  the 
ground — in  the  could  night,  whin  no  one  was  stirring  to  say,  God  save  ye.  I 
remember  it  well ;  he  would  not  suffer  us  to  take  so  much  as  a  blanket,  because 
the  bits  o'  things  were  to  be  canted  the  next  morning,  to  pay  the  rint  of  a  field 
which  my  brother  took,  but  never  worked ;  my  poor  mother  cried  like  a  baby ; 
and,  happing  the  ould  grey  cat,  that  your  ladyship  gave  her  for  a  token,  when 
it  was  a  small  kit,  in  her  apron,  we  set  off,  as  well  as  we  could,  for  Mrs. 
Mahony's  farm.  It  was  more  than  two  miles  from  us — and  the  snow  drifted — 
and,  och !  but  sorrow  wakens  a  body ! — and  my  mother  foundered  like,  and 
couldn't  walk ;  so  I  covered  her  over,  to  wait  till  she  rested  a  bit — and  sure 
your  token,  my  lady — the  cat  ye  gave  her — kept  her  warm,  for  the  baste  had 
the  sinse  a'most  of  a  Christian.  Well,  I  was  praying  for  God  to  direct  us  for 
the  best  (but,  may-be,  I  'm  tiring  your  honours),  whin,  as  if  from  heaven,  up 
drives  Barney,  and — ' 

"  •  Who  is  Barney,  Kate  ?' 

"  I  wish,  my  dear  Lord,  you  could  have  seen  Kate  Connor  when  I  asked  that 
question ;  the  way-worn  girl  looked  absolutely  beautiful :  I  must  tell  you  that 
she  had  exchanged,  by  my  desire,  her  tattered  gown  and  travel-stained  habili- 
ments, for  a  smart  dress  of  my  waiting-maid's,  which,  if  it  were  not  correctly 
put  on,  looked,  to  my  taste,  all  the  better.  Her  face  was  pale,  but  her  fine,  dark, 
intelligent  eyes  gave  it  much  and  varied  expression ;  her  beautiful  hair — even 
Lafont's  trim  cap  could  not  keep  it  within  proper  bounds — influenced,  probably, 
by  former  habits,  came  straying  (or,  or  as  she  would  call,  shtreeling)  down  her 
neck,  and  her  mobile  mouth  was  garnished  with  teeth  which  many  a  duchess 
would  envy ;  she  was  sitting  on  a  low  seat,  her  crossed  hands  resting  on  her 
knees,  and  was  going  through  her  narrative  in  as  straight-forward  a  manner  as 
could  be  expected ;  but  my  unfortunate  question  as  to  the  identity  of  Barney, 
put  her  out ; — face,  forehead,  neck,  were  crimsoned  in  an  instant ;  papa  turned 
away  his  head  to  smile,  and  I  blushed  from  pure  sympathy. 

" '  Barney — is  Barney — Mahony — my  lady,'  she  replied,  at  length,  rolling  up 
Lafont's  flounce  in  lieu  of  her  apron — '  and  a  great  true  friend  of — of — my 
mother's ' 

" '  And  of  yours,  also,  I  suspect,  Kate,'  said  my  father. 


KATE    CONNOR.  41 

"'We  were  neighbours'  childer,  plase  yer  honourable  Lordship,  and  only 
natural  if  we  had  a — friendly ' 

" '  Love  for  each  other,'  said  my  lordly  papa ;  for  once  condescending  to 
banter. 

" '  It  would  be  far  from  the  likes  o'  me  to  contradict  yer  honour,'  she  stammered 
forth,  at  length. 

" '  Go  on  with  your  story,'  said  I,  gravely. 

"  '  I  'm  thinking,  my  Lord,  and  my  lady,  I  left  off  in  the  snow — oh,  no  I — he 
was  come  up  with  the  car : — well,  to  be  sure,  he  took  us  to  his  mother's  house, 
.  and,  och  !  my  lady,  but  it 's  in  the  walls  o'  the  poor  cabins  ye  find  hearts ! — not 
that  I  'm  down  running  the  gintry,  who,  to  be  sure,  know  better  manners — but 
it 's  a  great  blessing  to  the  traveller  to  have  a  warm  fire,  and  dry  lodging,  and 
share  of  whatever 's  going — all  for  the  love  of  God — and  cead  mile  faille  with 
it !  Well,  to  be  sure,  they  never  looked  to  our  property  ;  and  Barney  thought 
to  persuade  me  to  make  my  mother  his  mother,  and  never  heeded  the  disgrace 
that  had  come  to  the  family;  and,  knowing  his  heart  was  set  upon  me,  his 
mother  did  the  same,  and  my  own  mother,  too — the  crathur ! — wanted  me 
settled ;  well — they  all  cried,  and  wished  it  done  off  at  once,  and  it  was  a  sore 
trial  that.  Barney,  says  I,  let  go  my  hand ;  hould  yer  whisht,  all  o'  ye,  for 
the  blessed  Virgin's  sake,  and  don't  be  making  me  mad  intirely ; — and  I  seemed 
to  gain  strength,  though  my  heart  was  bursting.  Look !  (says  I)  bitter 
wrong  has  been  done  us ;  but  no  matter,  I  know  our  honourable  landlord  had 
neither  act  nor  part  in  it — how  could  he? — and  my  mind  misgives  that  my  lady 
has  often  written  to  you,  mother,  for  it  isn't  in  her  to  forget  ould  frinds ;  but 
I  '11  tell  ye  what  I'll  do,  there 's  nobody  we  know,  barring  his  riverence,  and  the 
schoolmaster,  could  tell  the  rights  of  it  to  his  honour's  glory  upon  paper:  his 
riverence  wouldn't  meddle  nor  make  in  it,  and  the  schoolmaster 's  a  frind  of  the 
agent's ;  so  ye  see,  dears,  I  '11  jist  go  fair  and  asy  off  to  London  myself,  and 
see  his  Lorship,  an'  make  him  sinsible.  And,  before  I  could  say  my  say,  they 
all — all  but  Barney,  set  up  sich  a  scornful  laugh  at  me  as  never  was  heard. 
She 's  mad !  says  one ;  she 's  a  fool !  says  another ;  where 's  the  money  to  pay 
your  expinses  1  says  a  third  ;  and  how  could  ye  find  your  way,  that  doesn't 
know  a  step  o'  the  road,  even  to  Dublin  ?  says  a  fourth.  Well,  I  waited  till  they 
were  all  done,  and  then  took  the  thing  quietly.  I  don't  think,  says  I,  there  's 
either  madness  or  folly  in  trying  to  get  one's  own  again  ;  as  to  the  money,  it 's 
but  little  of  that  I  want,  for  I  've  the  use  of  my  limbs  and  can  walk,  and  it  '11  go 
hard  if  one  of  ye  wont  lend  me  a  pound,  or,  may-be,  thirty  shillings,  and  no  one 
shall  ever  lose  by  Kate  Connor,  to  the  value  of  a  brass  farthing ;  and  as  to  not 
knowing  the  road,  sure  I  've  a  tongue  in  my  head ;  and,  if  I  hadn't,  the  great 
God,  that  taches  the  innocent  swallows  their  way  over  the  salt  seas,  will  do  as 
much  for  a  poor  girl  who  puts  all  her  trust  in  Him.  My  heart 's  against  it,  said 
Barney,  but  she 's  in  the  right ; — and  then  he  wanted  to  persuade  me  to  go  before 
the  priest  with  him ;  but  no,  says  I,  I  '11  niver  do  that  till  I  find  justice  ;  I  '11  never 
bring  both  shame  and  poverty  to  an  honest  boy's  hearth-stone.  I  '11  not  be  tiring 
6 


42  KATE   CONNOR. 

yer  noble  honours  any  longer  \vid  the  sorrow,  and  all  that,  whin  I  left  them ; 
they  'd  have  forced  me  to  take  more  than  the  thirty  shillings — God  knows  how 
they  raised  that  same  ! — but  I  thought  it  enough ;  and,  by  the  time  I  reached 
Dublin,  there  was  eight  of  it  gone ;  small  way  the  rest  lasted ;  and  I  was  ill 
three  days,  from  the  sea,  in  Liverpool.  Oh !  when  I  got  a  good  piece  of  the 
way — when  my  bits  o'  rags  were  all  sold — my  feet  bare  and  bleeding,  and  the 
doors  of  the  sweet  white  cottages  shut  against  me,  and  I  was  tould  to  go  to  my 
parish,— then,  then  I  felt  that  I  was  in  the  land  of  the  could-hearted  stranger ! 
Och !  the  English  are  a  fine,  honest  people,  but  no  ways  tinder ;  well,  my  Lord, 
the  hardest  temptation  I  had  at  all  (and  here  Lady  Helen  looked  up  into  her  god- 
father's face,  with  a  supplicating  eye,  and  pressed  her  small  white  hand  affec- 
tionately upon  his  arm,  as  if  to  rivet  his  most  earnest  attention)  was  whin  I  was 
sitting  crying  by  the  road-side,  for  I  was  tired  and  hungry,  and  who,  of  all  the 
birds  in  the  air,  drives  up  in  a  sort  of  a  cart,  but  Mister  O'Hay,  the  great  pig 
marchant,  from  a  mile  beyant  our  place ;  well,,  to  be  sure,  it  was  he  wasn't  sur- 
prised when  he  seen  me !  Come  back  with  me,  Kate,  honey ! — says  he ;  I  'm 
going  straight  home,  and  I  Ml  free  your  journey  ;  whin  ye  return,  I  '11  let  the  boy, 
ye  know,  have  a  nate  little  cabin,  I  've  got  to  let,  for  (he  was  plaised  to  say)  you 
desarve  it.  But  I  thought  I  'd  parsevere  to  the  end,  so  (God  bless  him  for  it !) 
he  had  only  tin  shillings — seeing  he  was  to  receive  the  money  for  the  pigs  he 
had  sould  at  the  next  town — but  what  he  had  he  gave  me ;  that  brought  me  the 
rest  of  the  journey;  and  if  I  hadn't  much  comfort  by  the  way,  sure  I  had  hope, 
and  that's  God's  own  blessing  to  the  sorrowful;  and  now,  here  I  am,  asking 
justice,  in  the  name  of  the  widow  and  the  orphin,  that  have  been  wronged  by 
that  black-hearted  man ;  and,  sure  as  there  's  light  in  heaven,  in  his  garden  the 
nettle  and  the  hemlock  will  soon  grow,  in  place  of  the  sweet  roses ;  and  whin  he 

lies  in  his  bed — in.  his  dying  bed,  the  just  and  holy  God .'  My  father  here 

interposed,  and  in  a  calm,  firm  voice  reminded  her  that,  before  him,  she  must 
not  indulge  in  invective.  '  I  humbly  ask  yer  honour's  pardon,'  said  the  poor  girl, 
'  I  lave  it  all  now  just  to  God  and  yer  honour ;  and  shame  upon  me  that  forgot 
to  power  upon  you,  my  lady,  the  blessings  the  ould  mother  of  me  sent  ye, — full 
and  plinty  may  ye  ever  know  ! — said  she  from  her  heart,  the  cratur  ! — may  the 
sun  niver  be  too  hot,  or  the  snow  too  could,  for  ye ! — may  ye  live  in  honour,  and 
die  in  happiness,  and,  in  the  ind,  may  heaven  be  yer  bed !' 

"  You  may  guess  how  happy  the  poor  girl  became,  when  sheltered  under  our 
roof;  for  the  confiding  hope,  so  powerful  with  those  of  her  country,  was  strong 
within  her,  and  she  had  succeeded  in  assuring  herself  that  at  length  she  would 
obtain  justice. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  Lord,"  continued  the  Lady  Helen,  "  tell  me,  if  a  fair 
English  maiden,  with  soft  blue  eyes,  and  delicate  accent,  had  thus  suffered ;  if 
driven  from  her  beloved  home,  with  a  helpless  parent,  she  had  refused  the  hand 
of  the  man  she  loved,  because  she  would  not  bring  poverty  to  his  dwelling — if 
she  had  undertaken  a  journey  to  a  foreign  land,  suffered  scorn  and  starvation — 
been  tempted  to  return,  but,  until  her  object  was  accomplished,  until  justice  was 


KATE    CONNOR.  43 

done  to  her  parent,  resisted  that  temptation — would  you  say  she  acted  from 
impulse,  or  from  principle  ?" 

"I  say,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  answering  his  god-daughter's  winning 
smile,  "that  you  are  a  saucy  gipsy  to  catch  me  in  this  way.  Fine  times, 
indeed,  when  a  pretty  lass  of  eighteen  talks  down  a  man  of  sixty  !  But  tell  me 
the  result." 

"  Well,  now  you  must  hear  the  sequel  to  my  story ;  for  it  is  only  half  finished ; 
and  I  assure  you  the  best  half  is  to  come : — 

"  Instead  of  returning  to  Brighton,  my  father,  without  apprizing  our  worthy 
agent,  in  three  days  arranged  for  our  visiting  dear  Ireland !  Only  think,  how 
delightful ! — so  romantic,  and  so  useful,  too  !  Kate — you  cannnot  imagine  how 
lovely  she  looked ;  she  quite  eclipsed  Lafont !  Then  her  exclamations  of  delight 
were  so  new,  so  curious — nothing  so  original  to  be  met  with,  even  at  the  soirees 
of  the  literati.  There  you  may  watch  for  a  month  without  hearing  a  single 
thing  worth  remembering ;  but  Kate's  remarks  were  so  shrewd,  so  mixed  with 
observation  and  simplicity,  that  every  idea  was  worth  noting.  I  was  so  pleased 
with  the  prospect  of  the  meeting — the  discomfiture  of  the  agent — the  joy  of  the 
lovers,  and  the  wedding — (all  stories  that  end  properly,  end  in  that  way,  you 
know) — that  I  did  not  even  request  to  spend  a  day  in  Bath.  We  hired  a  car- 
riage in  Dublin,  and,  just  on  the  verge  of  papa's  estate,  saw  Mr.  O'Brien,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  fuzzy  red  hair  sticking  out  all  around  his  dandy  hat, 
like  a  burning  furze-bush,  and  his  vulgar,  ugly  face  as  dirty  as  if  it  had  not  been 
washed  for  a  month.  He  was  lording  it  over  some  half-naked  creatures,  who 
were  breaking  stones,  but  who,  despite  his  presence,  ceased  working,  as  the  car- 
riage approached.  '  There 's  himself,'  muttered  Kate.  We  stopped — and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  appalled  look  of  O'Brien,  when  my  father  put  his  head  out  of 
the  window — (Cruikshank  should  have  seen  it).  He  could  not  utter  a  single 
sentence.  Many  of  the  poor  men,  also,  recognized  us,  and,  as  we  nodded  and 
spoke  to  some  we  recognized  among  them,  they  shouted  so  loudly,  for  fair  joy, 
that  the  horses  galloped  on,  not,  however,  before  the  triumphant  Katherine, 
almost  throwing  herself  out  of  the  window,  exclaimed,  '  And  I  'm  here,  Mr. 
O'Brien,  in  the  same  coacli  wid  my  Lord  and  my  Lady,  and  now  we  '11  have 
justice  !'  at  which  my  father  was  very  angry,  and  I  was  equally  delighted. 
Two  '  weeny'  children  met  us  at  the  entrance  to  the  cottage— Barney's  cottage  ; 
their  healthy  cheeks  contrasted  with  the  wretchedness  of  their  attire ;  and  told 
my  father,  at  once,  the  condition  to  which  his  negligence  had  reduced  my  poor 
nurse — for  the  children  were  hers.  I  will  show  them  to  you  one  of  these  days, 
a  leetle  better  dressed.  It  was  worth  a  king's  ransom  to  see  the  happiness  of  the 
united  families  of  the  Connors  and  Mahonys ;  the  grey  cat,  even,  purred  with 
satisfaction : — then,  such  a  wedding !  Only  fancy,  my  dear  Lord,  my  being 
bridesmaid ! — dancing  an  Irish  jig  on  an  earthen  floor !  Ye  exquisites  and 
exclusives! — how  would  ye  receive  the  Lady  Helen  Graves,  if  this  were  known 
at  Alnqack's  ? — From  what  my  father  saw  and  heard,  when  he  used  his  ow? 
eyes  and  ears  for  the  purpose,  he  resolved  to  reside,  six  months  out  of  the  twelve, 


44 


KATE    CONNOR. 


at  Castle  Graves.  You  can  scarcely  imagine  how  well  we  get  on ;  the  people 
are,  sometimes,  a  little  obstinate,  in  the  matter  of  smoke,  and,  now  and  then,  an 
odd  dunghill,  too  near  the  door;  and,  as  they  love  liberty  themselves,  do  not 
much  like  to  confine  their  pigs.  But  these  are  only  trifles.  I  have  my  own 
school,  on  my  own  plan,  which  I  will  explain  to  you  another  time,  and  now  will 
only  tell  you  that  it  is  visited  by  both  clergyman  and  priest ;  and  I  only  wish 
that  all  our  absentees  would  follow  our  example,  and  then,  my  dear  god-papa, 

THE  IRISH  WOULD  HAVE  GOOD  IMPULSES,  AND  ACT  UPON  RIGHT  PRINCIPLES." 


a 


CAPTAIN  ANDY. 


OOD  day,  Master  Andy ;  you  have  a  prosperous  time 
of  it ;  plenty  of  water  to  work  the  mill,  and  plenty  of 
corn  to  grind.  Well,  Captain,  after  all,  peace  is  better 
than  war." 

Andy  glanced,  from  under  his  white  hat,  one  of  those 
undefinable  looks  of  quiet  humour,  perhaps  the  peculiar 
characteristic  of  an  Irish  peasant.  He  made  no  reply, 
but  elevated  his  right  shoulder,  and  drew  his  left  hand 
across  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  as  if  seeking  to  con- 
ceal its  expression ;  "  yer  honour  wouldn't  be  going  to 
Taghmon  this  fine  morning?" 

'*  No,  Captain." 

"  Well,  now,  Mr.  Collins,  dear,  may  I  make  so  bould 
just  to  beg  that  you  'd  lave  off  calling  me  captain ;  and 
give  me  my  own  dacent  name — Andy,  as  yer  honour 
used  afore  the  « Ruction,'  and  sure  the  peaceable  time 
has  lasted  long  enough  to  make  ye  forget  it  ?" 

(45) 


46  CAPTAIN    ANDY. 

"  So,  Captain  (I  beg  your  pardon),  Andy — the  peaceable  times  have  lasted  too 
long,  you  thiok." 

"  I  ax  yer  honour's  pardon,  I  said  no  sich  a  thing.  May-be,  if  it  was  said,  it 
would  be  nothin'  but  the  truth ;  but  that 's  neither  here  nor  there,  and  no  business 
o'  mine.  •  The  government 's  a  good  government — may-be,  ay — may-be,  no — 
and  the  king,  God  bless  him !" — and  he  lifted  his  hat  reverently  from  his  head— 
"  the  king 's  a  good  king !" 

"  Ay,  ay,  I  remember  your  famous  flag,  made  out  of  the  green  silk  curtain, 
and  garnished  with  real  laurel  leaves,  mounted  on  the  top  of  a  sapling  ash,  the 
motto, '  God  bless  the  king,  but  curse  his  advisers !'  " 

"  Well,  yer  honour  has  a  mighty  quare  way,  I  must  say,  of  repating  gone-by 
things,  and  tazing  a  person,  quite  useless  like." 

The  gentleman,  who  had  been  amusing  himself  at  the  poor  miller's  expense, 
now  assumed  a  more  serious  look  and  manner,  and  placing  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder  with  kind  familiarity — 

"  Andrew,"  said  he,  "  when  I  speak  seriously  of  by-gone  days — of  times  of 
terror  and  bloodshed,  there  is  one  feeling  that  absorbs  every  other — gratitude 
to  the  noble  little  Captain  of  the  Bannow  corps,  who,  when  one  of  my  own 
tenants  declared  '  it  was  the  duty  of  every  man  in  the  division  to  spill  Pro- 
testant blood,  until  the  United  men  could  stand  in  it  knee-deep,'  rushed  forward, 
and,  baring  his  bosom,  as  he  stood  before  me,  called  to  his  men  to  strike 
there,  for  that  not  a  hair  of  my  head  should  fall  while  he  had  arms  to  use  in  my 
defence." 

The  miller  turned  away  for  a  moment,  and  then,  taking  off  his  hat,  extended 
his  broad  hand  to  the  gentleman,  making  sundry  scrapes,  and  divers  indescribable 
gestures. 

"  May  I  make  so  bould  as  to  ax  yer  honour  to  walk  in,  and  ate  or  drink  some- 
thing ?  and,  besides,  I  had  a  little  matther  o'  my  own  that  I  wanted  to  spake  to 
ye  about :  and,  sure,  ye  need  never  think  of  what  ye  've  jist  mintioned ;  for,  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  yer  good  word,  thim  children  o'  mine  would  have  had  no  father. 
I  was  ready  enough  to  die  for  the  cause  like  a  man,  dacently ;  but  to  be  hung, 
jist  for  nothing,  like  a  dog,  was  another  thing.  It  '11  niver  come  to  that  wid  me 
now,  God  be  praised !  To  be  sure,  we  all  have  our  own  notions ;  but  I  '11  not 
meddle  or  make  any  more,  in  sich  matters ;  for  all  the  boys  wanted  to  be  com- 
manders and  gentlemen  at  once,  and  wouldn't  be  said  or  led  by  their  betthers. 
But  I  ax  pardon  for  talking,  and  ye  standing  outside  the  mill-house,  when  the 
woman,  and  the  fire,  all 's  widin,  that  'ud  rejoice  to  see  yer  two  feet  on  the  harth- 
stone,  even  if  it  were  of  pure  gould." 

"  Oh,  then,  kindly  welcome,  sir  !  Jenny,  set  a  chair  for  the  gintleman  ;  arrah, 
bother,  not  that  one  wid  the  three  legs  !  (Tim,  is  that  the  patthern  o'  yer  man- 
ners, to  stand  gnawing  yer  thumb  there ;  where 's  yer  bow  ?  Mabby,  set  down 
the  grawl,  can't  ye,  and  make  yer  curtshy.) — Sure  it 's  proud  we  're  of  the 
honour,"  continued  bustling  Mrs.  Andy,  "  and  grateful ;  and  what  will  yer  honour 
take  1  (Tim,  have  done  picking  the  bread.) — A  cruddy  egg  and  a  rasher,  or 


CAPTAIN    ANDF.  47 

some  hot  cake  and  frish  butter,  yer  honour,  as  frish  as  the  day,  made  wid  my 
own  hands.  Jenny,  quiet  that  child,  will  ye  ?  Oh,  Mabby,  Mabby,  run  for  the 
dear  life ;  there  's  the  ould  pig — bad  cess  to  her  ! — and  all  the  bonneens,*  through 
the  cabbages.  I  humbly  beg  yer  honour's  pardon  (courtesying),  but,  may-be 
yer  honour  would  just  taste " 

"  Will  ye  hould  yer  whisht,  Biddy  ?"  interrupted  the  Captain,  stepping  from 
the  inner  room,  carrying  a  stone  jar,  and  a  long  green  bottle ;  "  she  has  a  tongue 
in  her  head,  sir,  and  likes  to  use  it,"  he  continued,  placing  both  jar  and 
bottle  on  the  table ;  "  but  here 's  something  fit  for  a  mornin'  for  Saint  Patrick 
himself,  and  yer  honour  must  taste  it — raale  Innishown ;  or,  if  ye  're  too 
delicate  (striking  the  jar),  the  likes  of  this  isn't  in  e'er  a  cellar  in  the  county." 
He  filled  a  glass,  and  presented  it  to  Mr.  Collins,  who  looked  at,  tasted,  and 
finally  drank  it  off. 

"  It  came  from  foreign  parts,  sir,  as  a  little  testimonial  from  one  whose  last 
gift  it  will  be." 

"  Indeed,  Andy !  pity  such  cordials  should  be  last  gifts." 

"  True  for  ye,  sir.  Tim,  make  yer  bow  to  the  gintleman,  and  take  yer 
'  Voster'  out  under  the  sunny  hedge,  and  yer  slate,  my  man,  and  do  two  sums  in 
fractions,  for  practice.  Jenny,  woman,  lift  out  your  wheel,  and  see  that  yer 
brother  minds  the  sums." 

"  Don't  ye  see  she  's  getting  out  the  white  cloth,  for  a  snack  for  his  honour  ? 
I  wish  ye  'd  let  the  girl  alone ;  or,  any  way,  lave  her  do  my  bidding,"  con- 
tinued the  wife ;  "  ye  've  no  earthly  dacency  in  ye,  or  ye  'd  ha'  tould  me  his 
honour  was  coming  in,  and  then  I  could  have  got  something  proper,  not  trust- 
ing to  rashers  and  eggs,  and  yer  outlandish  drops ;"  and  the  angry  dame,  angry 
because  she  could  not  pay  "  his  honour"  sufficient  attention,  bustled  about  more 
than  ever. 

"  The  devil 's  in  the  woman  !  But — save  us  all ! — they  can't  help  it,"  muttered 
Andrew ;  "  may-be,  while  she 's  doing  the  eggs,  yer  honour  would  walk  out, 
and  look  at  the  new  spokes  in  the  mill-wheel,  and  the  little  things  I  've  been 
trying  at;  thank  God,  we've  no  middle  men  in  this  parish,  but  resident  land- 
lords, who  give  every  earthly  encouragement  to  the  improving  tenant,  and 
never  rise  the  rint  because  the  ground  looks  well;  only  a  kind  word,  and  every 
praise  in  life,  and  encourage  ye  wid  odd  presents :  a  wheel,  a  bale  o'  flax,  or  a 
lock  o'  wool  to  the  girls ;  a  new  plough  or  harrow,  or  some  fine  seed  potatoes 
to  the  boys  ;  and  that 's  the  true  rason  why  the  Parish  o'  Bannow  is  the  flower 
o'  the  country."! 

The  neighbouring  fields  looked,  indeed,  beautiful ;  and  the  bright  greenery 

*  Young  pigs. 

t  This  statement  holds  good  to  the  letter.  It  is  a  commom  occurrence  for  the  tenants  of  Mr. 
Boyse — even  those  who  have  no  leases — to  make  him  their  banker ;  exhibiting  to  him  the  profits 
they  make  out  of  the  land,  not  only  with  justifiable  pride,  but  with  perfect  confidence  that  the 
more  they  make,  the  better  pleased  their  landlord  will  be,  and  without  the  remotest  dread  tha 
their  increased  prosperity  will  be  a  cause  of  rising  the  rent. 


48  CAPTAIN    ANDY. 

extended,  at  either  side,  around  the  mill-stream ;  here  and  there,  a  gnarled  oak, 
or  a  gay  thorn  tree,  added  interest  to  the  landscape ;  while  the  sweet,  waving 
willows,  rooting  themselves  in  the  very  depth  of  the  rippling  water,  which, 
dancing  between  their  trunks,  and  sparkling  through  their  weeping  foliage, 
formed  a  picture  as  calmly  beautiful  as  even  fruitful  and  merry  England  could 
supply.  Andrew,  from  some  cause  or  other,  forgot  the  new  "  spokes"  when 
he  reached  the  mill-house  with  Mr.  Collins,  and  peered  behind  the  piled  sacks, 
to  ascertain  that  no  one  was  in  the  small  square  room,  which  contained  flour 
bags  and  piles  of  fresh  grain,  a  long  form,  and  sundry  winnowing  sheets,  flails 
and  sifters. 

"  I  have  got  something  particular  to  say  to  yer  honour,  but  couldn't  for  the 
woman;  but  I'll  boult  her  out  (fastening  the  door).  Sure  I 'm  king  o'  the  castle 
here,  any  way.  Oh !  don't  lane  aginst  thim  bags,  sir ;  there 's  no  getting  the 
white  out  o'  the  English  cloth,  at  all,  at  all.  Sure  the  binch — (I  wish  yer  honour 
was  on  the  raale  binch,  and  it 's  then  we  'd  have  justice !) — the  binch  '11  do  the 
turn."  And  Andy  pulled  off  his  wig,  dusted  with  it  the  form,  or,  as  he  called  it, 
"  binch,"  replaced  the  powdered  "  bob"  over  his  own  black  hair,  crossed  his  feet, 
gave  the  wig  a  settling  pull,  folded  his  arms,  and,  leaning  against  the  door-post, 
commenced  the  disclosure  of  his  secret,  in  a  confidential  under-tone : — 

"  Yer  honour  remimbers  ould  times,  I'm  thinking?" — Mr.  Collins  smiled. 

"  And  the  Bannow  corps  ?" — another  smile. 

"  Well ;  I  know  yer  honour 's  sinsible  that,  though  the  boys  would  have  me 
head  thim,  yet  I  nivir  thought  they  'd  have  turned  to  the  religion,  and  murdered 
the  innocent  craturs  o'  Protestants  for  nothin',  or,  as  God's  my  judge,  I  'd  have 
let  thim  all  go  to  Botany,  afore  I  'd  any  hand  in  it ;  but  that 's  all  gone  and  past, 
and  neither  here  nor  there.  Well ;  whin  once  I  was  in,  I  thought  it  right  to 
behave  myself  properly.  But  there  were  bloody  sins  o'  both  sides,  as  nataral ; 
— burnings  and  massacres — and  all  bad ;  and  time  was,  whin  I  couldn't,  for  the 
life  o'  me,  tell  which  was  worst;  only  the  poor  Catholics  had  no  arms,  but  the 
bits  o'  pikes,  for  the  most  part,  to  make  fight  wid.  Och !  it  was  bitter  bad ! 
Well,  yer  honour  remimbers  Thomas  Jarratt,  the  farmer,  who  lived  on  the  hill- 
side, far  from  kith  or  kin ;  a  lone  man,  wid  one  son,  a  wild  chap — yet  kindly  ; 
fierce — but  gentle-like  at  times,  and  a  generous  boy ;  striking  handsome,  and 
prouder  than  many  more  rich  and  powerful  nor  himself.  Well,  he  always  had 
his  own  way ;  the  poor  father  doted  down  on  him ;  and,  for  many  a  day,  he  was 
the  white-headed  boy  o'  the  whole  country. 

"  Now,  sir,  dear,  call  another  to  mind.  Ould  James  Corish,  though  suspicted 
o'  being  a  black  Protestant  (I  ax  pardon,  but  that  was  what  they  were  called) , 
was  well  counted  by  all  his  neighbours ;  he  had  seen  a  dale  o'  years,  and  there 
were  not  many  happier;  for  his  prosperity  had  lasted  for  more  than  half  a 
hundred,  and  appeared  sartin  to  continue  for  the  remainder  o'  his  days.  He  had 
had  a  joyful  fireside  o'  childer ;  but  they  were  all  gone  except  two :  Mary,  the 
eldest — so  larned,  so  wise,  and  so  charming ;  and  James,  a  fine,  gay  boy,  rising 
seventeen;  thoughtless — but  all  are  thoughtless,  sir,  before  they  mix  in  the 


CAPTAIN    ANDY.  49 

world,  to  drink  of  its  bitterness,  or  be  marked  by  its  corruption.  It  used  to 
do  my  heart  good,  of  a  Sunday,  to  see  that  family  passing  on  to  their  own 
church.  The  ould  man,  his  silver  hair  falling  over  his  shoulders ;  his  two  childer, 
the  one,  wid  her  dark  long  curls  half  hid  under  her  straw  hat,  and  her  short 
scarlet  petticoat,  that  set  off  the  white  stockings  and  slight  ankles ;  the  other 
looking  so  cheerful,  his  light  blue  eyes  jumping  out  of  his  head  wid  innocent 
joy.  Well,  sir,  young  Thomas  Jarratt  cast  an  eye  upon  the  colleen,  and,  as  he 
was  no  ways  a  strict  Catholic,  ould  Corish  thought,  may-be,  he  might  answer  for 
Mary,  as  he  was  well  to  do  in  the  world ;  and,  though  he  didn't  get  any  grate 
encouragement — to  say  grate — yet,  for  all  that,  he  went  in  and  out,  and  the  two 
boys  were  very  much  together,  and  no  one  dare  look  at  Mary,  on  account  o' 
young  Tom.  Yer  honour  remimbers  the  militia  regiments ;  well,  young  Corish 
was  drawed  to  go  in  thim." 

"  I  do.  I  remember  it  well,"  replied  Mr.  Collins ;  "  I  was  there  the  evening 
he  went  to  join  the  Wexford  militia.  ' God  bless  you,  my  only  boy !'  sobbed 
the  poor  father;  'it's  like  spilling  one's  own  blood,  to  fight  against  one's  neigh- 
bours ;  but,  God  bless  you,  boy ;  do  your  duty,  as  your  father  did  before  you  ; 
only  remember,  a  Protestant  soldier  need  not  be  an  Orangeman.'  Mary  neither 
spoke  nor  wept ;  but  she  pushed  the  curling  locks  from  off  her  brother's  brow, 
and  mournfully  gazed  upon  it ;  and  when,  laughing  at  her  fears,  he  affectionately 
kissed  her  cheek,  still  she  looked  sad ;  and  long  and  anxiously  did  her  eyes 
follow  him,  until  his  form  was  lost  in  -the  twilight  mist,  as  he  ascended  the 
mountain  of  Forth." 

"  Poor  cratur ! — poor  cratur  ?"  sighed  the  miller  ;  "  well,  sir,  you  know  I  was 
over-persuaded  to  join  the  boys,  and  we  used  to  have  little  meetings  in  this  very 
room,  and  I  didn't  care  to  let  the  wife  know  anything  of  it,  at  first ;  but  she 
found  it  out,  somehow  or  other  (the  women  are  very  'cute),  and  was  all  aginst 
it ;  but  she  corned  over  a  bit  at  the  thought  of  my  being  a  captain,  and  she,  to 
be  sure,  a  captain's  lady  ;  well,  we  hid  a  good  many  pikeheads  in  the  grain,  and 
sint  more  to  the  boys  o'  Watherford,  into  the  very  town,  though  it  was  under 
martial  law  at  the  time :  but  we  hid  them  among  brooms,  and  in  sacks  o'  flour, 
and  what  not.  The  wife,  one  day,  had  crossed  the  Scar,  to  give  a  small  sack 
o'  barley-male  to  one  at  the  other  side,  and  who  should  she  meet  this  side,  and 
she  comin'  back,  but  young  Thomas  Jarratt.  '  Good  morrow,  Mistress  Andy,' 
says  he.  '  Good  morrow  kindly,'  says  she.  '  May-be,'  says  he,  '  ye  won't  tell  a 
body  where  ye  've  been.'  To  be  sure  she  up  with  the  lie  at  once.  '  That  won't 
do  for  me,'  says  he ;  ' I  know  what  ye  're  after,  and  good  rason,  too,  for  I  'm 
sworn  in ;  and,  by  the  same  token,  the  pass-word  into  your  own  mill-house  is 
— green  boy.'  Well,  she  was  struck  quite  comical,  for  she  thought  of  his  father's 
white  head,  and  of  the  poor  lad's  own  rosy  cheek ;  but,  above  all,  of  sweet 
Mary  Corish.  '  Oh,  Thomas  !'  says  she, «  sure  it  wasn't  my  man  that  united  ye ; 
oh  !  think  of  yer  old  father,  and  the  black-eyed  girl  that  loves  ye.'  Och  !  the 
laugh  he  gave  was  heart-scalding.  'No,'  says  he,  'yer  husband  would  call  me 
a  boy  ;  and  as  to  Mary,  some  one  has  come  betwixt  us,  and  she  believes  me  bad, 


50  CAPTAIN    ANDY. 

and  ye  know  I  wouldn't  desave  her,'  and  away  he  goes  like  a  shot.  For  sartin, 
sorry  was  I  whin  I  hard  it,  but  it  was  too  true ;  Mary  soon  got  the  wind  o'  the 
word,  and  it  was  too  late — he  wouldn't  lade  nor  drive;  and  it  was  one  of  the 
Scarroges  that  drew  him  in,  for  which  the  same  man  niver  had  luck  nor  grace — 
for  the  boy  was  too  young  intirely  to  be  brought  into  sich  hardship.  Well,  I 
needn't  tell  about  thim  times.  Thomas  flourished  the  green  flag,  and  did  it 
bravely ;  but  in  the  battle  of '  The  Rocks,'  it  was  his  fate  to  cut  down  the  brother 
of  poor  Mary.  James  Corish,  however,  wasn't  much  hurt,  and,  wid  others,  was 
carried  to  the  barn  of  Scullabogue.  I  had  little  power,  excipt  in  my  own  regi- 
ment, and  I  couldn't  help  the  mischief.  Yer  honour  knows,  better  nor  me,  what 
that  cratur,  Mary,  wint  through." 

"  I  remember,  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday,"  said  Mr.  Collins ;  "  poor  old  James 
fled  with  Mary  to  Ross,  but  the  knowledge  of  her  brother's  danger  came  like 
a  blight  to  her  young  heart,  and  long  and  eager  were  her  inquiries  as  to  the  fate 
of  the  Wexford  militia.  A  report  reached  her,  that  her  brother  was  a  prisoner 
in  the  barn  of  Scullabogue,  and  that  the  barn  was  to  be  set  on  fire  that  night  or 
the  next" 

"  I  don't  like  to  hear  tell  of  that  barn,  at  all,  at  all ;  but  I  should  like  to  larn 
from  your  honour  how  she  made  her  way  from  Ross  to  Scullabogue ;  you  were 
in  the  town  at  the  time,  so  ye  have  a  good  right  to  know  all  about  it" 

"  True,  Andy ;  but  what  has  that  to  do  with  your  secret  ?" 

"  Och  !  more  nor  yer  honour  guesses,  any  way.  I  remimber  her  at  the  barn, 
but  the  cratur  niver  tould  me  how  she  got  there." 

"  Poor  thing  ! — she  wrapped  her  blue  mantle  around  her,  and,  with  a  blanched 
cheek,  but  a  resolute  eye  and  firm  step,  she  passed  the  Ross  sentries ;  the  shades 
of  night  were  thickening,  yet  the  intrepid  girl  pursued  her  noiseless  way  towards 
the  prison,  or  perhaps  the  grave  of  her  brother.  When  some  distance  from 
Ross,  she  heard  the  trampling  of  horses ;  they  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  and,  for 
the  first  time,the  necessity  of  avoiding  the  high  road  occurred  to  her.  She  con- 
cealed herself  behind  some  furze,  and,  as  they  passed,  their  suppressed  voices 
and  disordered  dress  informed  her  to  what  party  they  belonged.  She  next  trod 
her  path  across  the  country  over  the  matted  common,  and  through  the  swampy 
moor ;  nor  did  her  steps  fail  her,  until  within  a  mile  or  two  of  Scullabogue." 

"  Poor  colleen  !"  said  the  miller. 

"  The  grey  mist  of  morning  had  succeeded  the  night,  and  the  thrush  and 
blackbird  were  hailing  the  dawning  day,  as  Mary  sank  down,  exhausted,  on  the 
greensward.  '  Merciful  heaven  !'  she  exclaimed,  '  I  am  near,  very  near,  yet  I 
cannot  reach  it !'  and  she  clasped  her  hands  in  silent,  yet  bitter  agony.  At  this 
moment  she  saw  a  horse  quietly  grazing  upon  the  common,  and,  with  a  despe- 
rate effort  rushed  towards  the  spot,  unfastened  her  cloak,  and  girthed  it  round  the 
animal,  like  a  pillion — sprang  on  its  back,  and  having  previously  converted  the 
ribands  of  her  hat  into  a  bridle,  at  a  fearless  and  quick  pace  she  gained  the  main 
road,  encountered  the  rebel  outposts,  passed  them,  by  naming  your  name,  and, 
at  length,  halted  opposite  the  barn  door." 


CAPTAIN    ANDY.  51 

"  Well,  I  mind  it  now,  sir,  as  if  but  yesterday,"  interrupted  Andy  ;  "  she  look- 
ed like  a  banshee  in  the  early  light ;  her  black  hair  streaming  over  her  shoulders, 
and  her  eyes  darting  fire,  as  she  flung  herself  off  the  panting  baste.  The  officer 
over  the  door  was — Thomas  Jarratt. 

"  '  And  you  Thomas,'  said  she,  quite  distracted  like, '  You  here  a  commander ! 
— you  know  me  well !  The  fire  blazed  for  ye,  the  roof  sheltered  ye,  the  wel- 
come smiled  for  ye  in  my  father's  house,  since  we  were  both  childer.  I  have 
left  my  ould  father,  Thomas,  and  have  come  all  alone,  to  ask  these  men  my 
brother's  life,  or  to  tell  them  I  will  die  with  him !' 

"  «  You  are  mad,  Mary,'  he  answered  :  ' neither  the  captain  nor  I  could  save 
him  if  we  would  ;  you,  Mary,  I  can  save  ;  but  as  for  James — there 's  too  much 
Orange  blood  in  the  corps  already.'  That  was  the  word  he  spoke.  She  fell  on 
her  knees,  clenched  her  hands,  and,  in  a  deep,  smothering  voice,  sobbed  out, 
'  Let  me  see  him,  then  ;  let  me  see  James  once — only  once  more !' 

"  The  young  man,  without  making  answer,  rushed  into  the  barn,  and  in  a 
moment  returned,  from  crowds  of  famishing,  death  doomed  craturs,  with  James 
Corish.  James  thought  they  had  brought  him  forth  to  the  death,  and  he  tried  to 
draw  up  his  fainting,  bleeding,  shadow-like  body,  to  meet  it  as  a  man ;  but  when 
he  saw  his  dear  sister  Mary,  he  would  have  sunk  to  the  earth,  had  she  not  sprung 
to  his  side. 

"  *  Now,  mark  me  boys  !'  cried  she,  as,  half  turning  from  her  brother,  she  kept 
him  up  with  one  arm,  '  now,  mark  me ! — the  man  that  forces  him  from  me,  shall 
first  tear  the  limbs  from  my  body.  And  if  there  be  one  amongst  ye  who  denies 
a  sister's  claim  to  her  dying  brother,  let  him  bury  his  pike  in  my  heart,  or  burn 
me  wid  him.' 

"  She  flung  him  on  the  nearest  horse,  and  mounting  behind,  guided  the  ani- 
mal's bridle.  The  last  sound  of  the  galloping,  and  the  last  sight  of  her  streaming 
black  hair,  were  long  gone,  before  hand  or  foot  was  moved  ;  they  stood  like 
stocks  and  stones,  even  in  the  time  of  destruction,  wondering  at  woman's  love.* 
'  Fire  the  barn  !'  was  the  next  sound  I  hard,  and  that  from  Thomas  Jarratt's  own 
mouth.  I  seized  his  arm.  '  What  do  you  mane  ?'  said  I.  '  Fire  the  barn !'  he 
repeated,  stamping,  and  hell's  own  fire  flashing,  like  lightning,  from  his  blood- 
red  eyes.  'Isn't  he  half  murdered  by  this  hand?'  he  muttered  to  himself;  'and 
isn't  she  whole  murdered,  or  worse? — for  I  know  that,  in  twinty-four  hours  she'll 
be  either  mad  or  dead.  United  Irishmen !'  he  screamed  out,  waving  his  green 
flag,  '  the  soldiers  are  in  Ross.'  And,  sticking  his  pike  into  a  bresneugh,  some 
devils  had  lit,  he  rushed  towards  the  door.  I  saw  it  was  all  over,  so  I  shouted 
to  the  Bannow  boys  to  close  around  their  captain ;  and,  sure  enough,  out  of  my 
two  hundred  and  odd,  there  weren't  five  that  didn't  march  home  that  day  to 
their  own  cabins.  Och  !  but  the  crackling,  and  the  shrieks,  and  the  yells,  as  we 
hurried  on !" 

*  The  circumstance  here  recorded  is  strictly  true.  I  have  seen  my  heroic  countrywoman 
Mary  Corish,  often — but  never  without  grief.  The  effort  was  too  much  for  her  mind,  and  her 
reason  sank  under  it 


52  CAPTAIN    ANDY. 

The  old  miller  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  pressed  his  rough  fingers 
against  his  eyeballs,  as  if  to  destroy  such  horrid  recollections. 

"  Poor  Mary ! — she  gained  Ross  in  safety,"  said  Mr.  Collins,  "  and  her  father 
rejoiced  much.  James  soon  recovered  ;  but  we  all  know  the  wretched  Thomas 
was  right.  When  she  arose  from  that  fearful  brain  fever,  her  reason  was  per- 
fectly gone.  You  are  all  kind  to  her,  very  kind.  She  seems  more  happy  wan- 
dering about  your  mill,  and  gathering  flowers  for  your  children,  than  in  her 
brother's  farm-house.  I  remember  well  old  Jarratt's  funeral.  His  son  was 
killed ;  but,  I  believe  his  body  was  never  found." 

"  He  was  not  killed,  sir,"  replied  the  miller,  looking  earnestly  at  Mr.  Collins. 
"  Many  a  night  after,  he  slept  in  this  very  room." 
"  Here,  Andy  ! — what,  here  ? — and  you  knew  it  ?" 
"  Yer  honour  may  say  that,  when  it  was  myself  put  him  in  it." 
"  But,  Andy,  your  own  life  was  not  then  safe  from  the  king's  troops.     How 
could  you  commit  such  a  very  imprudent  action  (to  call  it  by  no  harsher  term), 
as  to  harbour  a  proscribed  man,  when  a  rich  price  was  set  upon  his  body,  dead 
or  alive  1    And  such  a  wretch,  too !     I  am  perfectly  astonished !" 

"  No  need  in  life  of  that  last,  sir.  As  to  my  own  head,  it  was  but  loosely  on 
my  shoulders  then — sure  enough  ; — as  to  the  prudence,  it 's  not  the  character  of 
the  counthry ; — as  to  the  price  set  upon  his  head,  none  o'  my  breed,  seed,  or 
generation,  were  iver  informers  (my  curse  on  the  black  word  !),  or  iver  will  be, 
plase  the  Almighty.  And  as  to  his  being  a  wretch — we  are  all  bad  enough,  and 
to  spare.  But,  had  he  murdered  my  own  brother,  and,  after,  come — ay,  with 
the  very  blood  upon  his  hands — and  thrown  himself  upon  my  marcy — I  'm  a 
true-born  Irishman,  sir,  who  nivir  refused  purtection,  when  wanted,  to  saint  or 
sinner.  But  the  fair  and  beautiful  boy,  to  see  him,  and  he  dressed  like  an  ould 
woman  pilgrim ;  his  cheek  hollow,  his  eye  dead,  so  worn ;  and  no  life  in  him, 
but  bitther  sorrow,  and  heavy  tears  for  sin.  We  kept  him  here,  unknowns!,  as 
good  as  five  weeks,  and  then  shipped  him  off  beyant  seas,  far  enough." 
"  But  the  money,  Andy— how  did  you  get  money  to  fit  him  out  ?" 
"  Is  it  the  money  1 — his  father's  land  was  canted  ;  and,  to  be  sure,  he  couldn't 
touch  a  pinny,  and  he  banned ;  but  I  '11  tell  you  who  gave  some  of  it — young 
James  Corish.  I  knew  the  good  drop  was  in  him,  and  so  I  tould  him  all  about 
it ;  and,  says  he,  '  There  have  been  many  examples  made  of  the  misfortunate, 
misguided  people,  Andy,'  says  he ;  'and  if  he  did  hew  me  down,  why,  't  was  in 
battle,  and  I  'd  ha'  done  the  same  to  him ;  but  the  drink  and  the  bad  company 
made  him  mad :  any  way,  he  took  me  out  o'  the  barn  ;  and,  more  than  all,  sure 
Viey  loved  each  other;  and  more  than  all  to  the  back  o'  that,  doesn't  the 
blessed  word  o'  God  tell  us  to  love  our  enemies,  and  to  do  good  to  thim  that  ill 
use  us  ?  Sure,  that 's  the  true  religion,  Andy ;  and  Catholic  or  Protestant  can't 
turn  their  tongues  to  betther  than  the  words  o'  the  gospel  o'  pace ;'  and,  without 
more  to  do,  he  gives  me  twinty  hard  guineas,  and  a  small  Bible,  and  I  gave 
Thomas  the  Bible  on  the  sly ;  and,  one  way  or  other,  we  sint  him  clane  out  o' 
the  land." 


CAPTAIN   ANDY.  53 

"  And  did  you  never  hear  of  the  unfortunate  young  man  since  ?"  inquired  Mr. 
Collins. 

"  Did  I  not  ? — sure  it  was  he  sint  me  over  the  cordial  ye  tasted ;  and  more 
than  all,  sure  he 's  come  over  himself,  in  the  strange  brig  that 's  at  the  new 
quay." 

"Good  God!"  said  Mr.  Collins,  starting  up;  "he'll  be  hung  as  certainly. as 
he  lands." 

"  Och  !  no  danger  in  life  o'  that,"  replied  Andy,  quietly. 

"  You're  mad — absolutely  mad  !" 

"  I  ax  yer  honour's  pardon,  I  'm  not  mad ;  and  sure  it 's  nat'ral  for  him  to  wish 
to  lave  his  bones  in  his  own  land." 

"  Leave  his  bones  on  a  gibbet !"  exclaimed  the  gentleman,  greatly  agitated. 

"  I  wanted  particular  to  spake  to  yer  honour  about  it,  as  he  is  to  land  to- 
night, under  the  ould  church,  and  Father  Mike  is  to  be  there,  and  Friar  Mad- 
den, and  not  more  than  one  or  two  others,  excipt  the  poor  boy  that  brought 
him  over." 

"  As  sure  as  he  lands,"  said  Mr.  Collins,  "  he  will  be  in  the  body  of  Wexford 
Jail  in  twelve  hours." 

"  Well,  that 's  comical,  too,"  replied  Andy,  quietly, — "  sind  a  dead  body  to 
Waxford  Jail !" 

Mr.  Collins  looked  perplexed. 

"  Yer  honour 's  not  sinsible,  I  see ;  sure  it 's  the  dead  body  o'  what  was 
Thomas  Jarratt  that 's  come  over ;  and,  by  the  same  token,  a  letther  (the  priest 
had  it),  written — (he  had  a  dale  o'  schooling)— jist  before  the  breath  left  him ; 
and  he  prays  us  to  lay  his  body  in  Bannow  Church,  as  near  the  ould  windy 
as  convanient,  without  disturbing  any  one's  rest ;  and,  on  account  he  doesn't 
wish  a  wake,  he  begs  us,  if  we  want  him  to  have  pace,  to  put  him  in  the  ground 
at  twelve  o'  the  night,  by  the  light  of  four  torches.  I  can't  see  the  use  of  the 
four,  barring  he  took  it  from  the  little  hymn — 

« Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John, 
God  bless  the  bed  that  I  lie  on.' 

"  But  it 's  hard  telling  dead  men's  fancies ;  be  that  as  it  may,  the  letther 's  a 
fine  letther — as  good  as  a  sarmint ;  and  he  sint  a  handsome  compliment  to  his 
reverence,  but  nothing  said  about  masses ;  and  he  sint  forty  guineas  to  James 
Corish,  and  remimbered  Mary ;  and  more  to  myself  than  iver  he  got  from  me ; 
but,  says  he, « I  can  pay  the  living,  but  what  do  the  dead  ask  of  me  T  And  the 
boy  that  came  over  wid  him  (an  ould  comarade),  that  was  forced  to  fly,  for  a 
bit  of  a  scrape,  nothing  killin'  bad,  only  a  bit  of  a  mistake,  where  a  chap  was 
done  for,  without  any  malice — only  all  a  mistake ;  well,  he  tould  me,  though  all 
worldly  matthers  prospered,  his  soul  troubled  him  night  and  day,  but  he  used  to 
read  the  Bible  at  times  (sure  it 's  the  word  o'  God),  and  sob,  and  pray ;  and  he 
wasted,  while  his  goods  increased ;  but  where 's  the  use  o'  my  delaying  yer 


54  CAPTAIN   ANDY. 

nonour  now  ?  I  only  want  to  ax  ye  if  there 's  anything  contrary  to  law,  in  land- 
ing and  burying  the  poor  ashes  to  night  ?" 

"  Nothing  that  I  know  of,  certainly." 

"  But  is  yer  honour  sartin  sure  about  it  ?  Becase,  if  there  was  any  earthly 
doubt,  I  'd  not  go  aginst  the  law  now,  the  least  bit,  for  the  price  of  the  'varsal 
world ;  and  sure,  I  'd  go  to  the  grave  any  time,  night  or  day,  to  keep  the  cratur 
asy,  only,  if  it 's  aginst  the  law " 

"  I  assure  you,  Andy,  it  is  not,"  replied  Mr.  Collins ;  "  and,  if  you  will  allow 
me,  I  should  like  to  be  there  myself;  it  is  wild  and  singular,  and  Father  Mike 
will  not  object,  I  dare  say." 

"  Och  !  yer  honour's  kind  and  good." 

It  was  agreed  that  they  should  meet  at  twelve  that  night  Mr.  Collins;,  of 
course,  partook  of  Mrs.  Andy's  hospitality,  and,  exchanging  kindly  greetings  with 
the  honest  miller's  family,  turned  his  steps  homeward. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  Mr.  Collins  gained  the  cliffs  that  overhang  the 
little  harbour  of  Bannow ;  the  moon  was  emerging  from  some  light,  fleecy 
clouds,  that  shaded,  without  obscuring,  her  brightness,  and,  as  she  mounted 
higher  in  the  heavens,  her  beams  formed  a  silvery  line  on  the  calm  waters,  that 
were  fleetly  crossed  by  a  small  boat :  at  the  prow  stood  a  tall,  slight  figure, 
enveloped  in  a  cloak;  and,  on  the  strand, four  or  five  men  were  grouped,  in  ear- 
nest conversation.  The  path  Mr.  Collins  had  to  descend  was  unusually  steep, 
and  various  portions  of  fallen  cliff  made  it  difficult,  if  not  dangerous.  As  he 
passed  along,  he  thought  the  shadow  of  a  human  form  crossed  his  way ;  but  the 
improbability  of  such  an  event,  and  the  flickering  light,  made  him  forget  the  cir- 
cumstance, even  before  he  joined  the  priest,  and  Andy,  on  the  beach.  No  word 
was  spoken,  but  hands  were  silently  grasped  in  hands,  and  they  prepared  to 
assist  in  the  landing  of  the  coffin ;  it  was  large,  covered  with  black  cloth,  and 
on  the  lid — "  Thomas  Jarratt,  aged  42,"  was  inscribed.  The  simple  procession 
quickly  formed.  The  priest  and  friar  lighted  each  a  torch ;  the  young  man 
who  brought  the  body  over,  still  shrouded  in  his  cloak,  supported  the  head  of  the 
coffin ;  Andy  and  another  bore  the  feet ;  and  the  remaining  torches,  and  Mr. 
Collins,  brought  up  the  singular  procession.  As  they  slowly  ascended,  the 
torches  threw  a  wild,  red  light  over  the  mounds  of  cliff,  fringed  with  sea  moss 
and  wild  flowers,  fragments  of  dark  rock,  and  tangled  furze,  which  the  hardened 
soil  appeared  incapable  of  nourishing.  When  they  had  nearly  arrived  at  the 
highest  point,  Mr.  Collins  distinctly  saw  the  passing  shadow  he  had  before 
imagined  he  had  observed,  fade,  as  it  were,  behind  a  broken  mass,  composed  of 
earth  and  rock ;  at  the  same  moment,  all  the  party  perceived  it ;  the  priests 
commanded  a  halt,  and  murmured  an  Ave  Mary. 

"  What  was  it  ?"  whispered  one. 

"  Lord  presarve  us,  it 's  lucky  they  're  wid  us ;  no  blight  can  come  where  the 
priests  do  be,"  replied  Andy. 

Without  further   hinderance  they  crossed   the   grassy  plain   that   extends 


CAPTAIN   ANDY.  55 

between  the  ruined  church  and  the  cliffs,  and   entered  the  long  aisle,  where 
no  more — 

"  The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  notes  of  praise." 

If  there  be  a  solitude  like  unto  that  of  the  sepulchre,  it  is  the  solitude  of  ruins. 
In  mountain  loneliness  you  may  image  an  unpeopled  world,  fresh  from  God's 
own  hand — pure,  bright,  and  beautiful,  as  the  new-born  sun ;  but  a  moss-grown 
ruin  speaks  powerfully,  in  its  loneliness,  of  gone-by  days  —  of  bleached  and 
marrowless  bones. 

All  was  silent  as  the  hollow  grave  which  yawned  at  their  feet.  The  innocent 
birds,  that  nestled  among  the  wall-flowers  and  ivy,  frightened  at  the  unusual 
light,  screamed  and  fluttered  in  their  leafy  dwellings.  The  moon  shone  brightly 
through  the  large  window,  as  the  bearers  rested  the  coffin  on  the  loose  earth. 

"  He  requested,"  said  Father  Mike,  addressing  Mr.  Collins,  "  that  his  body 
should  be  placed  in  the  ground  without  so  much  as  a  prayer  for  the  repose  of 
his  soul — that  was  heathenish ;  yet  his  other  words  were  those  of  a  penitent  and 
a  Christian." 

The  coffin  was  deposited  in  its  narrow  home ;  and  Andy  held  the  torch  over 
the  grave,  to  ascertain  that  all  had  been  properly  managed. 

The  priest,  the  friar,  and  Mr.  Collins,  stood  fixed  in  silent  prayer,  and  the 
passing  night-breeze  shook  the  withered  leaves  from  the  dark  overhanging  ivy. 
Each  individual  was  surrounded  by  the  urns  and  tombs  of  his  ancestors ;  nay, 
more,  by  those  of  relatives,  who,  in  the  bud  or  blossom  of  life,  had  passed  away, 
and  were  no  more  seen ;  and  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  the  silent  power 
of  death,  and  the  everlasting  doom  of  eternity,  pressed  heavily  on  the  hearts  of 
them  all  at  that  midnight  hour.  At  this  very  moment,  a  dark  shadow  obscured 
the  cold  moonbeams  that  streamed  from  the  window  ;  a  piercing  shriek  echoed 
along  the  broken  walls ;  and,  even  while  their  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  female,  who 
stood,  with  streaming  hair,  and  extended  arms,  on  the  large  window-frame — she 
sprang  from  the  elevation,  with  unerring  bound,  into  the  open  grave,  and  echo 
was  again  awakened  by  the  fearful  sound  made  by  her  feet  upon  the  coffin-lid. 

"  Heaven  and  earth !"  exclaimed  Andy,  as  he  raised  the  light,  "  it 's  Mary 
Corish !" 

She  seized  the  torch  from  the  astonished  miller,  lowered  it,  so  as  to  read  the 
inscription,  which  she  distinctly  repeated,  and  fell,  without  farther  motion,  on 
the  coffin  of  him  she  had  loved,  even  in  madness.  They  raised  her,  tenderly, 
out  of  the  grave,  but  the  pulses  of  life  were  slackening,  and  the  film  of  approach- 
ing death  was  stealing  over  the  wild  brightness  of  her  eyes. 

"  She  is  passing,"  said  Mr.  Collins,  chafing  her  damp  temples  as  he  spoke ; 
"  poor  Mad  Mary  !" 

"  I  am  not  mad,"  she  murmured,  and  her  utterance  was  very  feeble — "  not 
mad  now ;  I  was  so,  and  ye  all  pitied  me  ;  God  bless  ye  !  I  know  you — and 

you — and  you— and  I  know  him— that's "  with  a  last  effort  she  turned 

towards  the  grave,  looked  into  it,  and  expired. 


56  CAPTAIN    ANDY. 

No  one  could  ever  discover  how  she  was  apprized  of  the  intended  funerai 
but  as  she  was  always  wandering  about  the  sea-shore,  it  was  supposed  she  hat, 
overheard  some  of  the  conversation  that  had  occurred  on  the  subject 

Poor  Mary  ! — the  innocent  children  who  gather  ocean-weed  and  many-tinted 
shells  on  the  strand  of  Bannow,  when  they  see  the  white  sea-bird  seeking  its 
lodging  in  the  clefted  rock,  after  the  sun  has  set,  and  the  grey  mist  is  rising,  as 
if  to  shield  the  repose  of  nature,  softly  and  fearfully  whisper  to  each  other,  that 
it  is  time  to  return  to  their  homes,  for  that  Mad  Mary's  ghost  will  be  flitting 
around  the  aged  church  of  Bannow. 


TAKE  IT  EASY/ 


HEN  he  gets  into  those  humours,  Aileen,  all  ye 
can  do  with  him,  is — to  take  it  asy." 

'*  Take  it  asy,  indeed  !"  repeated  the  pretty  bride, 
with  a  toss  of  her  head,  and  a  curl  of  her  lip ;  "  it 's 
asy  to  say,  take  it  asy.  I  'm  sure  if  I  had  thought 
Mark  was  so  passionate,  I  'd  have  married  Mike  !" 

"  But  Mike  was  mighty  dark,"  replied  old  Aunt 
Alice,  with  a  mysterious  shake  of  her  head. 

"  Well,  so  he  was :  but  then  I  might  have  had 
Matthew." 

"Ah!  ah!"  laughed  old  Alice;  "he  was  the 
worst  bird  of  the  nest !  Look,  ye  can  wrind  Mark 
round  yer  finger,  as  I  wind  this  worsted  thread — 
if  ye '11  only  take  it  asy" 

"  Oh !  I  wish — I  wish  I  had  known,  before,  that 
men  were  so  ill-contrived !  I  'd  have  died  sooner 
than  haye  married,"  sobbed  Aileen ;  who,  to  con- 

(57) 


58  "TAKE    IT    EASY." 

fess  the  truth,  had  been  so  much  petted  by  the  neighbours,  on  account  of  her 
beauty,  that  it  would  have  required  a  large  proportion  of  love,  and  a  moderate 
allowance  of  wisdom,  to  change  the  village  coquette  into  a  sober  wife — I  say  a 
large  proportion  of  love :  «« Wit,"  to  quote  the  old  adage,  "  may  win  a  man," 
but  wit  never  kept  one :  unless  a  woman  cultivate  the  affections,  even  more  than 
knowledge,  she  will  never  secure  a  husband's  heart  It  is  to  this  cultivation, 
indeed,  that  women  owe — and  to  which,  only,  they  ought  to  owe — their  influ- 
ence ;  and  the  neglect  of  which  inevitably  engenders  that  mutual  distrust  which 
can  end  only  in  misery. 

"  Ah,  whisht !  avourneen !"  said  Alice,  "  sure  I  told  ye  all  along.  '  Mark,' 
says  I,  '  is  all  fire  and  tow — but  it 's  out  in  a  minute ;  Mike  is  dark,  and  deep  as 
the  bay  of  Dublin ;  and  Matthew  is  all  to  the  bad  intirely.'  You  've  got  the 
best  of  the  three.  And  ye  can  manage  him  just  as  the  south  wind,  that 's  blow- 
ing now — God  bless  it ! — manages  the  thistle-down  that 's  floating  through  the 
air,  if  ye '//  take  it  asy" 

At  first,  Aileen  pouted,  then  she  sat  down  to  her  wheel  —  was  too  much  out 
of  temper  to  do  what  she  was  doing,  well — broke  her  thread — pushed  it  from 
her — took  up  her  knitting  —  dropped  the  stitches  —  shook  the  needles  —  and,  of 
course,  dropped  some  more. 

"  Take  it  asy,"  said  aunt  Alice,  looking  at  her,  over  her  spectacles. 

Aileen  flung  the  knitting  away,  clasped  her  arms  round  her  aunt's  neck,  rested 
her  head  on  her  bosom,  and  wept  outright. 

"  Let 's  go  into  the  garden,  sit  under  the  ould  lime  tree,  and  watch  the  bees 
that  are  near  swarming,"  observed  aunt  Alice,  "  and  we  '11  talk  yer  trouble  over, 
avourneen.  It 's  very  sorry  I  am  to  see  ye  taking  on  so,  for  a  thrifle,  at  the  first 
going  off.  But  you  '11  know  better  by-'n-by,  when  real  troubles  come." 

Poor  Aileen,  like  all  young  people,  thought  her  troubles  were  very  real,  but 
she  held  her  peace ;  until,  observing  the  bees  more  than  usually  busy,  she  mut- 
tered, "  I  wonder,  aunt,  you  don't  tell  the  bees  to  take  it  asy." 

"  So  I  would,  dear,  if  I  saw  them  quarrelling ;  but  they  are  too  wise  to  quar- 
rel among  themselves,  whatever  they  do  with  furriners.  They  fly  together,  live 
together,  sing  together,  work  together,  and  have  but  the  one  object  and  aim  in 
life ;  ah,  then,  many  *s  the  good  lesson  we  may  learn  from  the  bees,  besides  that 
which  teaches  us  to  bring  all  that 's  good  and  useful  to  our  own  homes."  The 
old  woman  paused ;  and  then  added,  "  Sit  ye  down  here,  my  child,  and  listen  to 
what  I  'm  going  to  tell  ye.  Ye  know  well,  avourneen,  I  was  lawfully  married, 
first,  by  ould  Father  John,  to  Richard  Mulvaney — my  heart's  first  love  he  was ; 
heaven  be  his  bed  this  blessed  day,  and  grant  we  may  meet  above  the  world  and 
its  real  troubles !  Aileen,  it  was,  indeed,  a  trouble  to  see  my  brave,  young,  hand- 
some husband,  dragged  out  of  the  blue  waters  of  the  Shannon ;  to  find  that, 
when  I  called,  he  could  not  answer ;  when  I  wept,  he  could  not  comfort ;  that 
my  cheek  rested  for  hours  on  his  lips,  and  he  did  not  kiss  it ;  and  that  never 
more,  in  this  world,  would  I  hear  his  sweet  and  loving  voice !" 

Fourscore  years  and  five  had  passed  over  the  head  of  that  woman :  and  her 


"TAKE    IT    EASY."  59 

age  was  as  beautiful,  according  to  its  beauty,  as  had  been  her  youth.  She  had 
been  married  three  times ;  yet  her  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  remembrance  of 
the  love  and  sorrow  of  her  early  days,  and  it  was  some  time  before  she  could 
continue. 

"  Well,  dear,  one  day,  Richard  and  I  had  some  little  tiff,  and  I  said  more  than 
I  ought  to  have  said.  And  it  was  by  the  same  token,  a  fine  midsummer  morn- 
ing ;  I  strayed  out  to  our  garden,  and  picked  up  a  shiny  snail ;  and  as  I  looked 
at  the  snail,  I  remembered  how,  the  last  midsummer  day,  I  had  put  just  such 
another  between  two  plates,  and  sat  for  an  hour  by  the  rising  sun,  with  the  fore- 
finger of  my  left  hand  crossed  over  the  forefinger  of  my  right  hand ;  and  then, 
as  thrue  as  life,  when  I  lifted  the  plate,  the  thing  had  marked  as  purty  an  R,  and 
a  piece  of  as  beautiful  an  M,  as  the  schoolmaster  himself  could  write,  upon  the 
plate ;  and  I  cried  to  remember  how  glad  I  was  then,  and  how  sad  now ;  and, 
at  last,  I  cried  myself  to  sleep.  Alanna  machree !  I  was  little  more  than  a 
child, — not  all  out  sixteen.  Well,  dear,  in  my  drame,  I  suppose  I  must  call  it,  I 
saw  the  beautifulest  fairy  (the  Lord  save  us !) — the  very  handsomest  of  the  good 
people  that  ever  the  eyes  of  woman  looked  upon, — a  little  deeshy-dawshy  cray- 
thur,  footing  it  away,  all  round  the  blossom  of  a  snow-white  lily ;  now  twisting 
round  upon  the  tip  of  her  tiny  toe :  then,  as  if  she  was  joining  hands  round, 
down  the  middle  and  up  again,  to  the  tune  of  the  '  Rakes  of  Mallow.' " 

"  The  '  Rakes  of  Mallow !' "  exclaimed  Aileen. 

"  The  '  Rakes  of  Mallow,'  "repeated  Alice,  solemnly ;  "  I  heard  it  as  plain  as 
I  hear  the  rising  march  of  the  bees  at  this  blessed  minute.  Well,  of  a  suddent, 
she  made  a  spring,  and  stood  upright  as  a  dart  upon  the  green  and  goolden 
crown,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  flower,  and  pushed  back  her  ringlets,  and  settled 
her  dress  at  a  pocket  looking-glass,  not  so  big  as  a  midge's  wing ;  then,  all  in  a 
minute  she  looked  at  me,  and  said,  '  I  don't  like  the  sight  of  a  wet  eye ; — what 
ails  ye,  young  woman  ?' 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  my  heart  came  to  my  lips ;  but  I  had  too  much  manners 
not  to  answer  the  great  lady ;  and,  '  Madam,'  says  I,  '  my  eyes  would  be  as  dry, 
though  not  as  bright  as  yer  honour's,  if  it  wasn't  for  my  husband,  my  lady,  who 
wants  to  have  a  way  and  a  will  of  his  own.' 

" '  It  ?s  the  way  with  all  the  men,  my  own  husband  into  the  bargain,'  says  the 
queen,  for  she  was  no  less ;  '  and  there 's  no  use  fighting  for  the  upper  hand,' 
says  the  queen,  '  for  both  the  law  and  the  prophets  are  against  us  in  that ;  and 
if  it  comes  to  open  war,'  says  the  queen,  '  we  get  the  worst  of  it :  if  your  hus- 
band falls  into  a  bad  temper,  or  a  queer  temper, — if  he  is  cross,  or  unkind,  or 
odd — take  it  asy,'  says  the  queen,  '  even  if  he  does  not  come  round  at  once. 
This  quiet  way  of  yours  will  put  you  in  his  heart,  or  him  at  your  feet  (which  is 
pretty  much  the  same  thing)  at  last :  gentleness  does  wonders  for  us  women,  in 
Fairy-land.  You  could  hardly  believe  what  power  it  has ;  it 's  a  weapon  of 
great  strength  entirely,  in  the  hands  of  a  purty  woman — and  you  are  very  purty 
for  a  mortal,'  says  she  again,  looking  at  me  through  the  eye  of  a  heart's-ease, 
which  she  wore  about  her  neck  for  a  quizzing-glass. 


60  "TAKE    IT    EASY." 

" '  I  thank  you,  my  sweet  and  beautiful  lady,'  says  I,  '  for  your  compliment. 
'  Ah !  ah !'  and  she  laughed,  and  her  laugh  was  full  of  joy  and  hope,  like  the 
music  of  the  priest's  own  silver  bell.  « It 's  no  harm,'  she  continued,  '  if  now 
and  then  you  give  him  a  taste  of  that  which  makes  your  eyes  so  bright,  and 
your  cheeks  so  red,  just  now.' 

"  *  What 's  that,  madam  ?'  says  I. 

" '  Flattery,'  says  she.  '  Make  a  man,  be  he  fairy,  or  be  he  mortal,  pleased 
with  himself,  and  he  .is  sure  to  be  pleased  with  you.'  And  then  she  laughed  again. 
'  Whatever  he  says  or  does,'  says  her  majesty,  while  she  was  getting  into  a  goold- 
en  saddle,  a  horseback  on  a  great  dragon-fly,  dressed  in  a  beautiful  jacket  and 
gown  of  green  velvet,  with  a  silver  riding-whip  in  her  hand,  « take  it  asy,'  says 
she ;  and  I  heard  her  laugh  and  sing  when  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  her  sweet 
voice  shook  a  shower  of  white  rose-leaves,  from  a  bush,  on  my  face.  And  when 
I  awoke,  I  saw  the  wisdom  of  her  words,  and  I  kept  them  close  in  my  own  bo- 
som ;  and  often,  when  I  'd  be  just  going  to  make  a  sharp  answer  to  him  I  loved, 
for  all  that,  above  the  world,  I  'd  think  of  the  fairy's  word,  and  the  evil  would 
pass  from  my  heart  and  lips  without  a  sound — no  one  the  worse  for  it,  and  I  all 
the  better.  And  sure  Richard  used  to  say  I  was  like  an  angel  to  him.  Poor 
fellow !  he  was  soon  to  be  taught  the  differ,  for  the  angels  took  him  from  me  in 
earnest ! 

"  After  a  couple  of  years  I  married  again — I  've  no  reason  to  fault  the  second 
I  had ;  though  he  was  not  gentle,  like  him  who  sighed  out  his  soul  in  the  blue 
waters :  he  was  dark,  and  would  not  tell  what  offended  him.  Well,  I  'd  have 
given  the  world  to  have  hat}  some  one  to  whom  I  could  make  a  clean  breast ; 
but  I  had  none ;  and,  somehow,  I  again  sat  in  the  same  spot,  at  the  same  time — 
again  slept — and  again  saw  the  same  one  of  the  good  people.  I  did  not  think 
her  honour  was  as  gay  as  she  had  been,  and  I  wondered  in  my  heart  if  she,  too, 
had  taken  a  second  husband ;  it  would  not  have  been  manners  for  me  to  spake 
first,  but  she  was  free  as  ever. 

" « Well,'  she  says,  looking  at  me  very  solid-like,  '  you  've  tried  another ;  but 
though  you  have  not  forgotten  my  advice,  you  do  not  follow  it.' 

" '  Oh,  my  lady,  plase  yer  majesty,'  says  I,  '  the  tempers  of  the  two  do  so  dif- 
fer I'  and  I  thought  with  the  words  my  heart  would  break :  for  the  moment  poor 
Richard's  humour  was  out,  it  was  off;  but  James  would  sulk  and  sulk,  like  a 
bramble  under  the  shade  of  an  oak :  and  the  fairy  read  my  thoughts  as  if  they 
were  an  open  ballad.  '  This  one  is  dark,  my  lady,  and  gets  into  the  sulks,  and 
is  one  that  I  can't  manage,  good  or  bad ;  not  all  as  one  as  it  was  with  my  first 
husband,  plase  yer  majesty ;  for  when  we  had  a  tiff,  it  was  soon  over — God  help 
me,  so  it  used  to  be ;  but  this  one  sits  in  a  corner,  and  never  speaks  a  word,  not 
even  to  the  cat* 

" '  Ah,'  said  she,  '  they  are  different ;  but  the  rule  holds  good — gentle  and  sim- 
ple— hot  and  cold — old  and  young — you  must  take  them  asy,  or  you  '11  never  be 
asy  yourself.  Let  a  passionate  temper  cool ;  don't  blow  upon  it — a  breath  may 
ruffle  a  lake,  and  kindle  a  fire.  Let  a  sulky  temper  alone,  it  is  a  standing  pool ; 


"TAKE    IT    EASY."  61 

the  more  it  is  stirred,  the  more  it  will  offend.'  I  try  to  talk  her  fine  English, 
Aileen,  but  it  bothers  me,"  continued  old  Alice.  "  Well,  the  end  of  it  was,  that 
she  finished  as  before,  by  telling  me  to  take  it  asy ;  which,  after  that,  I  did ;  and 
I  must  say  that  James's  last  breath  was  spent  in  blessing  me.  Well,  dear,  Miles 
Pendergrast  was  rich,  and  I  was  poor ;  he  wanted  a  mother  for  five  children, 
and  a  servant  for  himself;  and  he  took  me.  This  was  the  worse  case  of  the 
three.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  love — young — fresh — heart-sweet  love  to  the 
first ;  and  more  than  is  going,  in  general,  to  the  second :  but,  oh,  my  grief!  there 
was  none  to  the  third.  Oh,  but  marriage  to  a  woman  without  love !  what  is  it  ? 
Where  love  is,  it  is  even  pleasant  lo  bear  a  harsh  word,  or  an  unkind  look — a 
satisfaction  that  you  can  show  your  love,  by  turning  bitter  to  sweet  Service  is 
no  service  then — his  voice  is  yer  music — his  word  yer  law — his  very  shadow 
on  the  ground  yer  brightest  sunshine !" 

"  Aunt,"  said  Aileen,  "  you  did  not  think  that  with  the  first,  at  the  time,  or  you 
would  not  have  wanted  the  good  people's  advice." 

"  True  for  ye,  avourneen ;  we  never  value  the  sunbeams  so  much  as  in  the 
dark  of  the  moonless  night ;  we  never  value  a  friend's  advice  until  he  is  beyond 
our  reach ;  we  never  prize  the  husband's  love,  or  the  mother's  care,  until  the 
grave  has  closed  over  them ;  and  when  we  seek  them  there,  the  grass  that  we 
weep  over  is  green,  the  mallow  and  the  dock  have  covered  the  cross  or  the  head- 
stone, and  the  red  earthworms  we  have  disturbed  bring  us  no  message." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more,  aunt,"  said  Aileen,  pained  by  the  picture  her 
aunt  had  drawn ;  "  now  I  '11  own  to  the  first  of  the  quarrel,  and  the  last  word  of 
it,  if  Mark  will  confess  to  the  middle." 

"  Let  a  quarrel  alone,  when  once  it 's  over,"  interrupted  her  aunt  *'  A  quar- 
rel, darlint,  is  like  buttermilk — when  once  it  is  out  of  the  churn,  the  more  you 
shake  it,  the  more  sour  it  grows." 

"  And  must  I  say  nothing  when  he  comes  home  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  say,  '  Mark,  my  heart's  delight !' " 

"  Oh,  aunt,  that  would  never  do  !" 

"  Well,  if  ye  're  ashamed  to  say  what  you  feel,  a  smile  and  a  kiss  will  do  as 
well.  And  a  smile  and  a  kiss  will  work  wonders,  darling,  if  the  heart  goes  with 
them ;  but  if  they  are  only  given  because  they  're  dutiful  gifts,  ah !  they  fall  like 
a  snow  wreath  upon  the  spring-flower,  chilling  and  crushing,  instead  of  warm- 
ing and  cheering.  Not  but  duty 's  a  fine  thing ;  but  it 's  dark  and  heavy  to  a 
married  woman  when  there  is  no  back  of  love  to  it." 

"  Did  the  fairy  queen  give  you  the  same  advice  the  third  time  ?"  said  the  bride, 
blushing  like  Aurora  at  Alice's  counsel ;  "  for  I  suppose  you  saw  her  the  third 
time " 

"  I  must  say,  achora,  she  wasn't  so  civil  to  me  the  last  time,  as  she  was  the 
first  and  second,"  answered  the  old  dame,  bridling.  "  She  tould  me  I  wasn't  as 
purty  as  I  used  to  be — that  was  true  enough,  to  be  sure,  only  one  never  likes  to 
hear  it ;  she  tould  me  that,  when  the  bloom  of  a  woman's  cheek  fades,  the  bloom 
of  her  heart  ought  to  increase ;  she  talked  a  deal,  that  I  did  not  quite  understand, 


62 


"TAKE    IT    EASY." 


about  men  making  laws  and  breaking  them ;  and  how  every  one  has  a  thorn  of 
some  kind  or  other  to  bear  with :  she  tould  me  how  hard  it  was  to  find  three 
roses  in  a  garden  all  of  the  same  shape,  colour,  and  scent,  and  how  could  I  ex- 
pect three  good  husbands  ?  She  said  that,  as  I  had  borne  my  crown,  I  must 
bear  my  cross ;  she  was  hard  enough  upon  me ;  but  the  winding-up  of  her  ad- 
vice to  me,  in  all  my  troubles, — was  to  take  it  asy ;  she  said  she  had  been  mar- 
ried herself  more  than  five  hundred  years." 

"  The  ould  craythur !  and  to  talk  of  your  not  being  so  purty  as  you  were !" 
said  Aileen. 

"  Hush,  avourneen !  Sure  they  have  the  use  of  the  May-dew  before  it  falls, 
and  the  colour  of  the  lilies  and  roses  before  it 's  folded  in  the  tender  buds ;  and 
can  steal  the  notes  out  of  the  birds'  throats  while  they  sleep." 

"  And  still,"  exclaimed  Aileen,  half  pouting,  "  the  best  advice  they  can  give 
to  a  married  woman,  under  all  her  trouble,  is — to  take  it  asy !" 

"  It 's  a  sensible  saying,  if  properly  thought  of,"  said  old  Alice,  "  and  will 
bring  peace,  if  not  love,  at  the  last.  If  we  can't  get  rid  of  our  troubles,  it 's 

Wise  tO  TAKE  THEM  ASY  " 


LO  LILY    <0>'  ffi  m  HE  N. 
E  FcrreU  &  Co  68  South  Fourth  St.  P 


LILLY  O'BEIEN. 


ILLY  O'BRIEN— the  sweet  Lilly  of  Bannow!— I 
shall  never  forget  the  morning  I  first  saw  her.  Her 
aunt — who  does  not  know  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Cassidy  ? — 
her  aunt  is  positively  the  most  delightful  person  in 
the  whole  parish.  She  is  now  a  very  old  woman, 
but  so  "  knowing"  that  she  settles  all  debateable  points 
that  arise  among  good  and  bad  housewives,  from  Mrs. 
Connor  of  the  Hill,  down  to  "  Polly  the  Cadger,"  as 
to  the  proper  mode  of  making  mead,  potato-cakes, 
and  stirabout ;  and  always  decides  who  are  the  best 
spinners  and  knitters  in  the  county ;  nay,  her  opinion, 
given  after  long  deliberation,  established  the  superi- 
ority of  the  barrel,  over  the  hand,  churn.  There  is, 
however,  one  disputed  matter  in  the  neighbourhood, 
even  to  this  day.  Mrs.  Cassidy  (it  is  very  extraor- 
dinary, but  who  is  without  some  weakness?) — Mrs. 
Cassidy  will  have  it  that  a  Quern — an  obsolete  hand-mill  of  stone,  still  patronised 
by  "  the  ancient  Irish" — grinds  wheat  better  than  a  mill,  and  produces  finer  flour ; 
she,  therefore,  abuses  all  mills,  both  of  wind  and  water,  and  persists  in  grinding 
her  own  corn,  as  well  as  in  making  her  own  bread.  By-the-bye,  this  very  Quern 
was  in  great  danger  some  time  ago,  when  an  antiquary,  who  had  hunted  hill  and 
dale,  seeking  for  Danish  or  Roman  relics  (I  forget  which,  but  it  is  of  little  con- 
sequence), pounced  upon  it,  declared  it  was  a  stone  bowl  of  great  antiquity,  and 
that  Mrs.  Cassidy's  maiden  name,  "  Maura  O'Brien,"  carved  on  it  in  Irish  char- 
acters, proved  it  to  have  been  used,  either  by  Dane  or  Roman,  in  some  religious 
ceremony,  or  Bacchanalian  rite,  I  cannot  take  it  on  myself  to  say  which : — but 
this  I  know,  that  the  old  gentleman  was  obstinate  ;  had  been  accustomed  to  give 
large  sums  for  ugly  things  of  every  description,  and  thought  that  Mrs.  Cassidy 
could  be  induced  to  yield  up  her  favourite  for  three  guineas.  He  never  was  more 
mistaken  in  his  life ;  nothing  could  have  tempted  Mrs.  Cassidy  to  part  with  her 
dear  Quern ;  so  he  left  the  neighbourhood,  almost  heart-broken  with  disappoint- 
ment. 

I  respect  the  Quern  myself,  for  it  was  the  means  of  introducing  me  to  the 
sweet  Lilly.  There,  that  little  path,  bordered  with  oxlips,  primroses,  and  unob- 
trusive violets, — 

"Whose  deep  blue  eyes, 
Kiss'd  by  the  breath  of  heaven,  seem  colour'd  by  its  skies " — 

that  path  leads  to  Mrs.  Cassidy's  dwelling.    You  cannot  see  the  cottage,  it  is 

(63) 


64 

perfectly  hidden — absolutely  wooded  in ;  but  it  is  a  rare  specimen  of  neatness. 
The  farm-yard  is  stocked  with  ricks  of  corn,  hay,  and  furze ;  with  a  puddle-like 
pond  for  ducks  and  geese,  and  a  sty  for  a  little  grunting  animal,  who  thinks  it 
a  very  unjust  sentence  that  consigns  a  free-born  Irish  pig  to  such  confinement. 
How  beautiful  is  the  hawthorn  hedge ! — one  sheet  of  snowy  blossom — and  such 
a  row  of  bee-hives ! — while  the  white  walls  of  the  cottage  are  gemmed  over 
with  the  delicate  green,  half-budded,  leaves  of  the  noble  rose-tree,  that  mounts 
even  to  the  chimney-top ;  the  bees  will  banquet  rarely  there,  by-and-by.  A  par- 
lour in  an  Irish  cabin !  —  yes,  in  good  truth,  and  a  very  pretty  one :  the  floor 
strewed  with  the  ocean's  own  sparkling  sand ;  pictures  of,  at  all  events,  half  the 
head  saints  of  the  calendar,  in  black  frames,  and  bright  green,  scarlet,  and  orange 
draperies ;  a  corner  cupboard,  displaying  china  and  glass  for  use  and  show,  the 
broken  parts  carefully  turned  to  the  wall ;  the  inside  of  the  chimney  lined  with 
square  tiles  of  blue  earthenware,  and  over  it  an  ivory  crucifix,  and  a  small  white 
chalice  full  of  holy  water ;  six  high-backed  chairs,  like  those  called  "  education" 
of  modern  days ;  a  well-polished  round  oak  table,  and  a  looking-glass  of  antique 
form,  complete  the  furniture.  The  window — forget  the  window  ! — oh,  that  would 
be  unpardonable !  It  consists  of  six  unbroken  panes  of  glass,  and  outlooks  on 
such  a  scene  as  I  have  seldom  witnessed.  Let  us  open  the  lattice — what  a  gush 
of  pure,  invigorating  air !  Behold  and  gaze — ay,  first  on  the  flower-bed  that  ex- 
tends to  where  Mrs.  Cassidy,  with  right  good  taste,  has  opened  a  view  in  the 
hawthorn  hedge ;  then  on,  down  that  sloping  meadow,  dotted  with  sheep,  and 
echoing  the  plaintive  bleat  of  the  young  and  tender  lambs ;  on,  on  to  the  tower- 
ing cliff,  which  sends,  leaping  over  its  blackened  sides,  a  sparkling,  foaming  tor- 
rent, rapid  as  lightning,  and  flashing  like  congregated  diamonds,  for  the  sun's 
brightness  is  upon  it,  to  the  wide-spreading  sea,  which  reposes  in  its  grandeur, 
like  a  sheet  of  molten  silver.  Yonder  torrent  is  strangely  beautiful.  The  rock 
from  which  it  gushes  is  dark  and  frowning,  not  even  a  plant  springing  from  its 
sterile  bed ;  yet  the  pure  water  issues  from  it,  full  of  light,  life,  and  immortality, 
like  the  spirit  from  the  Christian's  clay.  Dear  Mrs.  Cassidy  loves  the  sea ;  her 
husband  was  owner  and  commander  of  a  small  trading  vessel ;  and  her  happiest 
days  were  spent  in  coasting  with  him  along  the  Irish,  English,  and  Welsh  shores. 
He  died  in  his  own  comfortable  home,  and  was  quietly  buried  in  Bannow  church, 
leaving  his  widow  (who,  but  for  her  rich  brogue,  might,  from  her  habits,  have 
passed  for  an  English  woman)  and  one  son,  independent  of  the  frowns  or  smiles 
of  a  capricious  world.  They  had  wherewithal  to  make  them  happy  in  their 
own  sphere. 

Edward  was,  even  at  two  years  old,  an  embryo  sailor ;  a  careless,  open-heart- 
ed boy,  who  loved  everything  ardently,  but  nothing  long;  except,  indeed,  his 
mother,  who  often  regretted  that  his  rambling  disposition  afforded  her  so  little 
prospect  of  enjoyment  in  after  life.  She  had  a  brother  in  the  north  of  Ireland, 
who,  dying,  left  an  only  child,  our  fair  Lilly,  lovely  and  desolate  in  a  cold  world  ; 
but  Mrs.  Cassidy  would  not  suffer  any  of  her  kith  or  kin  to  want  when  she  had 
"  full  and  plinty ;"  and.  accompanied  by  Edward,  then  a  boy  about  fifteen,  she 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  65 

journeyed  to  Tyrone,  and  returned  to  her  cottage  with  the  orphan  girl.  Soon 
after  this  circumstance  (of  which  I  was  then  ignorant),  I  paid  the  good  lady  a 
visit ;  and  when  the  country  topics,  of  setting  hens,  feeding  calves,  and  the  dear- 
ness  of  provisions,  were  exhausted,  I  asked  her  if  she  still  used  her  Quern  ? 

"  Is  it  the  Quern  ? — and  that  I  do,  lady ;  just  look  at  this  ! — (producing  a  very 
nice  and  snowy  cake) — and,  sure,  bad  manners  to  me  for  not  axing  ye  to  taste 
it,  and  my  own  gooseberry,  before  !  Look  at  this,  there 's  not  a  mill  in  the  coun- 
thry  could  turn  out  such  bread  as  that ;  and  if  ye  like  to  see  it  at  work,  I  've 
just  lifted  it  under  the  thorn  yonder,  to  the  sunny  side  of  the  ditch,  and  been 
instructing  a  poor  colleen,  that  the  world  'ud  be  after  hitting  hard,  becase  she  'd 
no  friends,  never  a  one,  barring  me,  if  I  hadn't  brought  her  here  to  be  like  my 
own — and  why  not,  sure,  and  she  my  brother's  child  ?  Well,  I  've  been  tacheing 
her  how  to  use  the  Quern,  as  in  duty  bound ;  she 's  helpless  as  yet,  but  she  shall 
soon  know  everything." 

I  followed  Mrs.  Cassidy  into  the  garden,  and,  looking  towards  "  the  sunny 
side  of  the  hedge,"  saw  the  child  she  had  mentioned.  She  might  then  have 
been  about  thirteen ;  her  figure  was  slight  and  bending  as  a  willow  wand,  and 
the  deep  black  of  her  low  frock  finely  contrasted  with  a  skin  transparently 
white ;  her  hair  fell  in  thick  curls  over  her  neck  and  shoulders,  and  in  the  sun- 
beams looked  like  burnished  gold ;  it  was  not  red — oh,  no  ! — but  a  pale,  shining, 
and  silky  auburn.  She  was  occupied  in  turning  the  Quern  with  one  hand,  and 
letting  the  grain  drop  from  the  other ;  when  she  looked  towards  us,  and  shook 
back  the  curls  from  her  face,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  so  sweet  a  countenance  ; 
her  forehead  was  high  and  finely  formed ;  but  her  soft  blue  eyes  seemed  better 
acquainted  with  tears  than  smiles ;  there  was  something  even  more  than  polite 
in  her  address — it  possessed  much  of  rustic  dignity ;  and  the  tones  of  her  voice 
were  like  those  of  a  well-tuned  instrument. 

The  cottage  now  possessed  for  me  a  charm  that  was  irresistible ;  for,  superior 
as  the  people  of  Banriow  are  to  the  general  Irish  community,  nothing  so  pure  as 
the  Lilly  had  ever  blossomed  among  us  before. 

Even  the  rude  peasantry  seemed  to  look  on  her  as  something  far  above  them  ; 
and  when,  accompanied  by  her  aunt  and  cousin,  she  passed  up  Carrick-hill  on 
the  Sabbath  morning,  to  join  in  the  prayers  and  receive  the  blessing  of  the  priest, 
they  all  watched  her  footsteps,  and  declared  that  she  appeared  "  a'most  like  a 
born  jantle woman" — no  small  praise  from  the  poor  Irish,  who  venerate  high 
birth  to  an  extraordinary  degree.  Lilly's  time  was  not  idly  spent :  Mrs.  Cassidy 
resolved  that  she  should  know  everything;  and  as  her  childish  days  had  been 
occupied  solely  in  the  business  of  education — as  she  read  correctly,  and  wrote 
intelligibly,  it  was  time,  the  good  lady  thought,  to  teach  her  all  manner  of  useful 
occupations ;  consequently,  spinning  succeeded  knitting,  and  then  came  mark- 
ing, shirt-making  in  all  its  divisions,  namely,  felling,  stitching,  button-holes,  and 
sewing ;  then  milking  and  churning ;  the  best  practical  method  of  hatching  and 
bringing  up  chickens,  ducks,  turkeys,  geese,  and  even  pea-fowl — two  of  the  lat- 
ter were,  unfortunately  for  poor  Lilly,  given  to  her  aunt  just  as  she  arrived  at 
9 


66  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

the  cottage ;  then  the  never-ending  boiling  of  eggs,  and  chopping  of  nettle-tops 
for  the  young  turkeys,  that  they  might  put  forth  their  red  heads  without  danger 
of  croup  or  pip ;  then  the  calf,  an  obstinate  orphan,  had  to  be  dosed  with  beaten 
eggs  and  new  milk,  because  he  would  not  feed  as  he  ought ;  her  cousin's  and 
aunt's  stockings  regularly  mended ;  and,  worst  of  all,  a  dirty,  shoeless  gipsy,  the 
maid  of  all  work  to  the  establishment,  was  given  to  my  sweet  Lilly's  superin- 
tendence : — to  Lilly,  who  had  never  known  a  mother's  care,  had  been  a  foolish 
father's  idol,  and  who  had  no  more  method  or  management  than  a  baby  of  five 
months  old ;  however,  her  patience  and  gentleness  worked  wonders ;  from  be- 
fore sunrise  she  toiled  and  thought ;  and,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  astonished 
even  Mrs.  Cassidy.  The  Quern  never  ground  such  fine  flour,  the  poultry  were 
never  so  well  fattened,  the  needlework  was  never  so  neatly  finished,  and  the  cot- 
tage never  so  happy,  as  since  Lilly  had  been  its  inmate !  When  the  toils  of  the 
day  were  comparatively  ended,  and  when  the  refreshing  breezes  of  evening 
rambled  among  the  sweet  yet  simple  flowers  that  blossomed  in  the  garden,  Lilly 
loved  to  sit  and  read,  and  watch  the  blue  waters ;  and,  as  the  night  advanced, 
gaze  on  the  meek  moon  floating  in  her  own  heavens.  She  had  now  resided 
nearly  three  years  at  the  cottage,  and  was,  one  fine  summer  evening,  sitting 
under  the  old  thorn  tree ;  some  grief  must  have  been  heavy  at  her  heart,  for 
tears,  in  the  full  moonlight,  were  trembling  on  her  long  eyelashes : — perhaps  her 
aunt  had  been  angry,  or  Edward  had  plagued  her  with  too  many  of  his  never- 
ending  errands. 

"  Well,  cousin  Lilly !"  exclaimed  a  joyous  voice,  "  I  never  saw  such  a  queer 
girl  as  ye  are ;  ye  've  been  trotting,  and  mending,  and  bothering  all  day,  and 
now,  instead  of  a  race,  or  a  dance,  or  anything  that  way,  there  ye  sit,  with  yer 
ould  books,  and  yer  blue  eyes,  that  bate  the  world  for  beauty.  Lilly,  dear  — 
tears! — as  I  stand  here,  you've  been  crying.!  What  ails  ye,  Lilly? — what  ails 
ye,  I  say  ?  I  take  it  very  unkind  of  ye,  Lilly," — and  he  sat  down  and  took  her 
hand  with  much  affection — "  I  take  it  very  unkind  of  ye  to  have  any  trouble 
unknown  to  me  who  loves  ye  (Lilly  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand)  as  an  own  bro- 
ther. Has  mother  vexed  ye  ?'* 

«  Oh,  no !" 

"  Well,  then,  cheer  up !  Come,  come !  James  Connor  has  lent  the  barn  to- 
night, and  I  met  Kelly  the  piper  going  there,  and  there  '11  be  a  merry  spree,  and 
you  must  jig  it  with  me,  and  Harry  too,  Lilly,  dear ;  and  mother  '11  be  glad 
ye  go.  Come,  sure  ye  're  a  blessing  to  the  ground  ye  walk  on.  Come,  put  on 
yer  pumps  and  white  stockings.  The  people  say  ye  're  proud,  Lilly,  but  ye  're 
not ;  though  ye  might  be,  for  there 's  not  one  in  the  parish  like  ye." 

Lilly's  heart  fluttered  like  a  caged  bird,  as  she  did  her  cousin's  bidding,  and 
accompanied  him  to  the  barn,  where  the  piper  was  blowing  his  best  for  the  boys 
and  girls,  who  footed  gaily  to  their  favourite  jigs.  The  Irish,  old  and  young, 
rich  and  poor,  all  love  dancing;  and,  although  their  national  dance  is  rude  and 
ungraceful,  there  is  something  heart-cheering  in  witnessing  the  hilarity  with 
which  it  inspires  them. 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  67 

While  Lilly  and  Edward  were  joining  in  the  amusements  of  the  evening,  Mrs. 
Cassidy  was  sleeping  or  knitting  at  her  kitchen  fire,  until  disturbed  by  the  rais- 
ing of  the  latch,  and  the  "  God  save  all  here !"  of  "  Peggy  the  Fisher." 

I  wish  I  could  bring  Peggy  "  bodily "  before  you,  for  she  is  almost  a  nonde- 
script. Her  linsey-woolsey  gown,  pinned  up  behind,  fully  displayed  her  short 
scarlet  petticoat,  sky-blue  stockings,  and  thick  brogues ;  a  green  spotted  kerchief 
tied  over  her  cap — then  a  sun-burnt,  smoke-dried,  flatted  straw  hat — and  the 
basket  of  fish,  resting  "  on  a  wisp  o'  hay,"  completed  her  head  gear.  When- 
ever I  met  her  in  my  rambles,  her  clear,  loud  voice  was  always  employed  either 
in  singing  the  "  Colleen  Rue,"  or  repeating  a  prayer ;  indeed,  when  she  was 
tired  of  the  one,  she  always  returned  to  the  other ;  and,  stopping  short  the  mo- 
ment she  saw  me,  she  would  commence  with — 

"  Wisha  thin  it 's  my  heart  bates  double  joy  to  see  you  this  very  minit.  Will 
ye  turn  yer  two  good-looking  eyes  on  thim  beautiful  fish,  lepping  alive  out  o'  the 
basket,  my  jewil.  Och,  it 's  thimselves  are  fresh,  and  it 's  they  'ud  be  proud  if 
ye  'd  jist  tell  us  what  ye  'd  like,  and  then  we  'd  let  ye  have  it  a  dead  bargain !" 

Peggy  was  certainly  the  queen  of  manoeuvring,  and  thought  it  "  no  harm  in 
life  to  make  an  honest  pinny  out  o'  thirn  that  could  afford  it ;"  but  she  had  strong 
affections,  keen  perceptions,  and  much  fidelity ; .  her  ostensible  trade  was  selling 
fish,  but  there  was  more  in  her  basket  than  met  the  eye — French  silks,  rich  laces, 
or  some  drops  of  smuggled  brandy  for  choice  customers ;  and  when  the  farmers' 
wives  could  not  pay  her  in  cash  they  paid  her  in  kind — meal,  feathers,  chickens, 
and  even  sucking-pigs,  which  Peggy  disposed  of  with  perfect  ease,  so  extensive 
were  her  connexions.  Then,  she  was  the  general  match-maker  and  match- 
breaker  of  the  entire  country.  Those  who  could  write  confided  to  her  their 
letters ;  those  who  could  not,  made  her  the  messenger  of  sweet  or  bitter  words, 
as  occasion  required.  And,  to  do  Peggy  justice,  she  has  even  refused  money, 
ay,  solid  silver  and  gold,  rather  than  prate  of  love  affairs ;  for  she  pitied  (to  use 
her  own  words)  "  she  pitied  the  young  craturs  in  love ;  well  remimbering  how 
her  own  saft  heart  was  broke,  many 's  the  day  ago."  Peggy  lived  anywhere — 
everywhere.  There  were  few,  married  or  single,  who  either  had  not  needed, 
did  not  need,  or  might  not  need  Peggy  the  Fisher's  assistance ;  and  the  best  bit 
and  sup  in  the  house  were  readily  placed  before  her. 

"Och,  Peggy,  honey!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cassidy,  "is  that  y'erself! — sure  'tis 
I  'm  glad  to  see  ye,  agra ;  and  what  '11  ye  take  ?  —  a  drop  o'  tay,  or  a  trifle  o' 
whiskey  to  keep  the  could  out  o'  yer  stomach  ;  or  may-be  a  bit  to  ate — there 's 
lashings  o'  white  bread,  and  sweet  milk,  and  the  freshest  eggs  ever  was  laid." 

"  Thank  ye  kindly,  Mrs.  Cassidy,  ma'am ;  sure  it 's  y'erself  has  full  and  plinty 
for  a  poor  lone  woman  like  myself.  I  '11  take  the  laste  taste  in  life  o'  whiskey — 
and  may-be  ye  'd  take  a  drop  o'  this,  ma'am  dear ;  a  little  corjial  I  has,  to  keep 
off  the  water  flash," — continued  she,  screwing  up  the  corner  of  her  left  eye,  and 
placing  her  basket  on  the  table. 

"  Have  ye  got  anything  striking  handsome  under  thim  dirty  sea- weeds  and 
dawny  shrimpeens,  agra  ?'  inquired  Mrs.  Cassidy. 


68  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

"  May-be  I  have  so,  my  darlint,  though  it 's  little  a  poor  lone  cratur  like  me 
can  afford  to  do  these  hard  times ;  and  the  custom-officers,  the  thieving  villians, 
in  Waterford,  Duncannon,  and  about  there,  they 's  grown  so  'cute  that  there 's 
no  ho  wid  'em  now,  at  all,  at  all.  There's  a  thing  that's  fit  for  Saint  Patrick's 
mother  anyhow," — displaying  a  green  shawl  with  red  roses  on  it — "  there 's  a 
born  beauty  for  ye ! — and  such  nataral  flowers,  the  likes  of  it  not  to  be  met  \vid 
in  a  month  o'  Sundays — there  's  a  beauty !" 

"  Sure  I  've  the  world  and  all  o'  shawls,  Peggy,  avourneen !  —  and  any  how 
that 's  not  to  my  fancy.  What  'ud  ye  be  axing  for  that  sky-blue  silk-handker- 
chief?" 

"  Is  it  that  ye  're  after  ?  It 's  the  last  I  got  o'  the  kind,  and  who  'ud  I  give  a 
bargain  to  as  soon  as  y'erself,  Mrs.  Cassidy,  ma'am  ? — and  ye  shall  have  it  for 
what  it  cost  myself,  and  that 's  chape  betwixt  two  sisters ;  it 's  raal  Frinch,  the 
beauty ! — and  it 's  wronging  myself  I  am  to  give  it  for  any  sich  money  —  dog 
chape,  at  six  thirteens." 

"  Och,  ye  Tory,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cassidy :  "  six  thirteens  for  that  bit  of  a 
thing !  Is  that  the  way  ye  want  to  come  over  a  poor  widow,  ye  thief  o'  the 
world !"  and  she  avoided  looking  at  the  tempting  article  by  fixing  her  eyes  on 
her  knitting,  and  working  with  double  speed. 

"  Well,  mistress  dear,  I  never  thought  ye  'd  be  so  out  of  all  rason,"  and  Peggy 
half  folded  up  the  handkerchief.  Mrs.  Cassidy  knitted  on,  and  never  even 
glanced  at  it 

"  It 's  for  Miss  Lilly,  I  'm  thinking,  ye  want  it ;  and  sure  there 's  nothing  in  life 
would  look  so  very  nate  on  her  milk-white  skin  as  a  sky-blue  handkerchief — and 
so,  ma'am,  ye  won't  take  it,  and  it  killing  chape  ?" 

Mrs.  Cassidy  shook  her  head. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  for  you  I  would  do so,  there !  (throwing  it  on  the  table) 

ye  shall  have  it  for  five  thirteens ;  and  that  ?s  all  as  one  as  ruination  to  myself." 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what,  Peggy,  a'coushla  !"  and  Mrs.  Cassidy  took  off  her  specta- 
cles, and  looked  at  the  kerchief  attentively :  "  I  '11  tell  ye  what ;  it  was  four  thir- 
teens ye  meant ;  and  ye  meant  also  to  give  Lilly  two  yards  o'  that  narrow  blue 
riband  for  knots,  that  ye  promised  her  long  agone." 

"  I  own  to  the  promise,  as  a  body  may  say,"  responded  Peggy ;  "  I  own  to 
the  promise ;  but  as  to  the  four  thirteens  for  sich  as  that !  —  woman  alive  — 
why " 

"  Asy,  asy,  Peggy,  honey,  no  harm  in  life !"  interrupted  Mrs.  Cassidy,  "  take 
the  blue  rag,  it 's  no  consarn  o'  mine." 

"  Blue  rag,  indeed ! — but" — after  a  pause — "  it 's  no  rag,  Mrs.  Cassidy,  ma'am, 
and  there 's  no  one  knows  that  betther  nor  you  that  has  all  the  wisdom  in  the 
whole  counthry  to  y'erself;  but  howsomever,  take  it ;  sure  I  wouldn't  disagree 
with  an  ould  residenther,  for  the  vallee  of  a  few  brass  fardins." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  extracted,  from  the  depths  of  an  almost  unfathomable  pocket,  a 
long  stocking,  slit  like  a  purse  in  the  centre  seam,  and  tied  with  a  portion  of  red 
tape  at  either  end.  From  amid  sundry  crown,  half-crown,  "  tin-pinny,"  and 


69 

"  five-pinny"  pieces,  the  exact  sum  was  selected,  paid,  and  the  kerchief  deposited 
in  an  ancient  cupboard  that  extended  half  the  length  of  the  kitchen,  and  frowned, 
in  all  the  dignity  of  Jamaica  mahogany,  on  the  chairs,  settle,  and  deal  table. 

"  The  boy  and  girl  are  out,  I  'm  thinking,"  commenced  Peggy,  as  she  lit  her 
cutty  pipe,  and  placed  herself  comfortably  in  the  chimney  corner,  to  enjoy  the 
bit  of  gossip,  or,  as  well-bred  people  call  it,  "  conversation,"  which  the  ladies, 
ay,  and  the  lords  of  the  creation,  so  dearly  love. 

"  They  're  stept  down  to  Connor's,  to  have  a  bit  of  a  jig ;  I  'm  right  glad  to 
get  Lilly  out,  she 's  so  quiet  and  gentle,  and  cares  as  little  for  a  dance,  and  less, 
by  a  dale,  than  I  do !" 

"  Och,  ma'am,  dear,  that 's  wonderful,  and  she  so  young,  and  so  perfect  hand- 
some ! — and  more  thinks  that  same  nor  me." 

'•Who  thinks  so,  Peggy?"  inquired  Mrs.  Cassidy,  anxiously. 

"  What ! — ye  don't  know,  may-be  ? — Why  thin  I  '11  jist  hould  my  tongue." 

"  Ye  '11  do  no  such  thing,  Peggy ;  sure  the  colleen  is  as  the  sight  o'  my  eye 
— as  dear  to  my  heart  as  my  own  child,  which  I  hope  she  '11  be  one  o'  these  days, 
plase  God ;  and  I  tould  ye  as  good  as  that  before  now — the  time  d'  ye  mind,  I 
bought  her  the  green  silk  spencer.  And  why  not  ?  A'n't  I  rareing  her  up  in  all 
my  own  ways  ? — and  isn't  she  o'  my  own  blood  ?  And  Ned,  the  wild  boy,  that 
has  full  and  plinty  to  keep  him  at  home,  if  he  'd  jist  mind  the  land  a  bit,  and  give 
over  his  sailing  talk,  *ud  make  a  fit  husband  for  her ;  and  thin  I  could  make  my 
sowl,  and  die  asy  in  yon  little  room,  betwixt  my  son  and  daughter.  And  I  tell 
ye  what,  Peggy  the  Fisher,  there 's  no  use  in  any  boy's  casting  an  eye  at  my 
Lilly,  for  Ned's  wife  she  shall  be  ;  and  I,  Maura  Cassidy,  say  it — that  was  never 
gainsaid  in  a  thing  she  took  in  her  head,  by  man  or  mortal." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,  very  well,  why  !"  ejaculated  Peggy,  as,  gathering  her- 
self over  the  dying  embers  of  the  turf  fire,  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  she 
jogged  slowly  backward  and  forward,  like  the  rocking  motion  of  a  cradle.  They 
both  remained  silent  for  some  time.  But  Mrs.  Cassidy's  curiosity,  that  unweary- 
ing feeling  of  woman's  heart,  neither  slumbered  nor  slept;  and,  after  waiting  in 
vain  for  Peggy  to  recommence  the  conversation,  she  could  contain  no  longer. 

"  Who  was  talking  about  Lilly's  beauty,  Peggy  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  sure  everybody  talks  of  it ;  and  why  not  ?" 

"  Ay,  but  who  in  particular  ?" 

"  Och,  agra ! — no  one  to  say  particular — that  is,  very  particular." 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  good  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy,  rising  from  her  seat, 
and  fixing  herself  opposite  the  Fisher :  "  if  I  find  out  that  you  've  been  hearing 
or  saying  anything,  or  what  is  more,  hiding  anything  from  me,  regarding  my 
boy  and  girl,  when  I  get  you  at  the  other  side  of  the  door  (for  I  wouldn't  say  an 
indacent  thing  in  my  own  house),  I  '11  jist  civilly  tell  ye  my  mind,  and  ax  ye  to 
keep  yer  distance,  and  not  to  be  meddling  and  making  wid  what  doesn't  con- 
sarn  ye." 

Peggy  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  her  pipe,  crammed  her  middle  finger  into  it 
to  ascertain  that  all  was  safe ;  and,  putting  it  into  her  pocket,  curtsied  to  Mrs. 


70 

Cassidy,  and  spoke — "  As  to  good  woman,  that 's  what  I  was  niver  called  afore ; 
and  as  to  not  hearing— would  ye  have  me  cork  my  ears  whin  I  hard  Ned  and 
Harry  Connor  discoorsing  about  the  girl,  and  I  at  the  other  side  o'  the  hedge  ? 
Och,  och !— to  think  I  should  iver  be  so  put  upon !  But  good  night,  good  night 
to  ye,  Mistress  Cassidy — cork  my  ears,  agra !  And  now,"  she  continued,  as  she 
hastily  stepped  over  the  threshold,  "  I  'm  at  the  other  side  the  door,  so  say  yer 
say." 

Mrs.  Cassidy's  curiosity  was  more  excited  than  ever ;  and  her  short-lived  an- 
ger vanished  as  Peggy  withdrew. 

"  Stop,  Peggy ! — don't  be  so  hot  and  so  hasty ;  sure  I  spoke  the  word  out  o' 
the  face,  and  meant  no  harm ;  come  in,  a'coushla ;  it 's  but  nataral  I  'd  be  fiery 
about  thim,  and  they  my  heart's  treasures." 

In  three  minutes  they  were  as  good  friends  as  ever,  and  Peggy  disclosed  the 
secret,  which,  notwithstanding  her  apparent  unwillingness,  she  came  to  the  cot- 
tage to  tell.  "  Ye  mind  the  thorn  hedge,  where  the  knock  slopes  off;  well,  the 
day  was  hot,  and  I  tired  with  the  heat,  and  the  basket,  and  one  little  thing  or 
another;  and  so  down  I  sits  on  the  shady  side,  thinking  o'  nothin'  at  all,  only  the 
crows — the  craturs — flying  to  and  fro,  feeding  the  young  rawpots  that  kicked 
up  sich  a  bobbery  in  their  nests  wid  the  hunger ;  and  of  what  the  priest  said 
from  the  altar  aginst  smuggling,  and  if  he  was  in  right  down  arnest  about  it ; 
and  then  it  crassed  my  mind,  to  be  sure,  how  hard  it  was  for  a  poor  lone  body 
to  make  an  honest  bit  o'  bread  these  hard  times,  and  the  priest  himself  agin  it ; 
well,  by-an'-by,  who  comes  shtreelin'  up  the  hill  at  my  back,  but  your  Ned  and 
young  Harry  Connor ;  well,  I  was  jist  goin'  to  spake,  but  by  grate  good  luck 
I  held  my  wisht;  well,  the  first  word  I  hears  was  from  Ned's  own  mouth, 
and  they  were  a  good  piece  off  at  the  time,  too ;  '  She 's  always  the  same,'  says 
he,  *  always — sure  I  love  her  as  my  own  sister.'  '  May-be  more  nor  that,'  says 
Harry,  quite  solid.  *  Harry,'  says  Ned,  solid  like,  too,  '  don't  go  to  the  fair  wid 
the  joke ;  look,  I'd  suffer  this  arm  to  be  burnt  to  the  stump  to  do  Lilly  any  good  ; 
heart  frindship  I  have  for  her,  and  well  she  desarves  it,  but  no  heart  love.'  Wid 
that,  my  jewil !  I  thought  Harry  Connor  'ud  have  shook  the  hand  bodily  off  Ned  ; 
and  thin  I  hard  Ned  say  as  how  he  'd  like  a  more  dashinger  girl  for  a  wife  nor 
his  cousin ;  and  thin  agin  he  talked  about  travelling  into  foreign  parts ;  and  thin 
they  comaraded  how  Ned  'ud  bring  them  in  company  together  as  often  as  he 
could,  and  talked  a  dale  o'  the  dance,  and  Ned  said  he  never  see  the  colleen  yet 
he  'd  like  to  marry ;  and  Harry's  quite  done  over,  for  he  swore  he  'd  lay  down 
his  life  for  one  look  o'  love  from  Lilly's  eyes ;  and  they  kep'  on  talkin'  an'  talkin', 
and  I  kep'  creepin'  an'  creepin'  alongside  the  ditch,  till  the  road  turned : — and 
ye  know  it  was  my  duty  to  find  the  rights  of  it,  and  you  consarned." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  waxed  very  wroth  as  Peggy's  narrative  drew  towards  a  close ; 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  that  the  cousins  should  be  married,  and  thought  she 
had  managed  the  matter  admirably.  She  was  always  praising  Edward  to  Lilly, 
and  Lilly  to  Edward ;  -and  it  was  quite  impossible  to  think  that  two  creatures  so 
perfect  (notwithstanding,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  her  son  often  occasioned  hei 


71 

much  anxiety),  and,  in  her  opinion,  so  well  suited  to  each  other,  should  be  con- 
stantly in  each  other's  society  without  falling  in  love.  Lilly's  anxiety  to  promote 
her  cousin's  happiness,  the  perfect  willingness  with  which  she  made  all  her  in- 
dustry, all  her  amusements,  yield  to  his  caprice,  convinced  Mrs.  Cassidy  that 
she  would  not  oppose  her  wishes :  and  then  came  another  puzzling  consideration 
— Edward  had  always  appeared  so  very  fond  of  Lilly !  The  poor  woman  was 
fairly  baffled ;  how  she  wished  that  Harry  Connor  was  little,  old,  and  withered 
as  a  cluricawn ;  but,  no,  he  was  tall,  handsome,  and  more  gentle,  more  polished 
than  her  son.  Ned  was  gay  and  careless  as  ever ;  his  raven  hair  curled  lightly 
over  his  finely  formed  head,  and  his  hazel  eyes,  full  of  bright  laughter,  accorded 
well  with  the  merry  smile  that  played  around  his  mouth.  He  was  frank  and 
generous,  but  he  was  also  violent  and  capricious.  Had  Lilly  not  been  so  much 
with  him,  nay,  perhaps,  even  had  he  not  instinctively  felt  that  his  mother  wished 
him  to  marry  her,  he  would  have  fallen  over  head  and  ears  in  love,  at  once.  He 
admired  and  respected  Lilly,  yet  her  quiet  virtues  were  a  silent  reproach  to  his 
recklessness ;  and  at  heart  he  longed  to  sail  on  the  blue  waters,  and  visit  other 
lands.  Next  to  his  mother  and  cousin  in  his  regards,  came  Harry  Connor ;  and 
Harry  well  deserved  it.  He  was  a  most. extraordinary  Irishman;  cautious  and 
prudent,  even  wheft  a  youth,  and  gentle  and  constant.  The  second  son  of  an 
opulent  grazier,  he  had  been  educated  for  the  priesthood,  and  would,  no  doubt, 
have  been  useful  in  his  ministry,  for  he  had  kindly  feelings  towards  all  his  fellow- 
creatures,  but  that  the  death  of  his  elder  brother  made  it  necessary  for  him  to 
assist  his  father  and  family  in  the  management  of  the  grass  farm. 

Poor  Mrs.  Cassidy ! — do  you  not  pity  her  1  Mothers  are  the  same,  I  believe, 
all  the  world  over ;  and  really  it  is  a  great  shame  that  such  an  outcry  should  be 
raised  against  their  innocent  manoeuvrings,  though  it  must  be  confessed  they  are 
sometimes  very  annoying,  and  not  unfrequently  end  in  a  manner  little  anticipated. 
Poor  Mrs.  Cassidy !  After  a  few  moments'  cogitation,  she  was  about  to  give 
vent  to  her  anger,  when  the  sweet  voice  of  Lilly  was  heard,  bidding  "  good 
night,  and  thank  ye  kindly,"  to — Harry  Connor. 

"  Stay,  stop,  asy  !"  ejaculated  Peggy,  jumping  up — "  if  that 's  Misther  Harry, 
may-be  (calling  after  him)  ye  'd  jist  give  me,  a  poor  cratur,  a  bit  o'  yer  company 
down  the  lane,  that  I  don't  like  to  go  alone :  good  night  to  ye  kindly,  and  the 
blessing  be  about  ye."  And  basket  and  all  went  off  at  a  short  trot — Peggy's 
peculiar  gait. 

"  What  ails  ye,  aunt  dear  1"  affectionately  inquired  Lilly ;  for  Mrs.  Cassidy 
had  not  spoken. 

"What  ails  you,  girl  alive  —  or  dead  —  for  ye 're  as  white  as  a  sheet  —  and 
where's  Ned?" 

"  Ned  went  a  piece  of  the  way  home  with  Katey  Turner,"  replied  Lilly,  blush- 
ing, and  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes  at  the  same  time. 

"  And  you  came  a  piece  with  Harry  Connor  ?" 

"  I  could  not  help  it,  aunt  dear,"  said  Lilly,  earnestly.  "  Sure,  Ned  ran  off 
with  Katey,  and  asked  Harry  to  see  me  home." 


72  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

"  He  did,  did  he  ?  Why,  then,"  cried  the  dame,  rising  in  a  great  passion, 
"  I  '11  soon  tache  him  betther  manners,  the  reprobate !" 

"  Oh,  aunt,  dear  aunt !" — and  poor  Lilly  threw  her  arms  around  Mrs.  Cassidy's 
neck — "  Oh,  don't  say  a  hard  word  to  Ned — oh,  may-be  he  couldn't  help  it !" 
and  she  burst  into  tears.  "  But  don't,  oh,  don't,  for  the  sake  o'  her  that  never 
angered  ye,  don't  say  a  hard  word  to  Ned." 

"  Ye  're  a  good  girl,  I  '11  say  that  for  you  any  how,  my  own  colleen,"  said  Mrs, 
Cassidy,  kissing  her  fair  forehead ;  "  there,  go  to  bed,  my  darlint ;  ye  look  very 
pale,  a'n't  ye  well  ?" 

"  Yes,  aunt,  thank  ye ;  but  ye  're  not  angry  with  Ned  1" 

*'  Well,  well,  go  to  bed,  I  '11  not  scould  him  much,  avourneen  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,  at  all,  my  own  dear  aunt !" 

"  Well,  there  agra,  you  've  begged  him  off;  stay  a  minute,  gramachree !" — 
Lilly  was  just  mounting  the  ladder  which  led  to  her  small  chamber :  she  re- 
turned. "  I  jist  wanted  my  child  to  tell  me  why  she  calls  me  aunt,  now,  that 
used  to  call  me  mother  when  first  she  came  to  me.  Lilly,  darlint !  am  I  less  a 
mother  to  ye  now  than  I  used  to  be  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no ! — not  that,  dear  a — mother,"- — she  stammered  out ;  and  again 
her  face  and  bosom  were  red — "  not  that !" 

"  What  then,  Lilly,  love? — I  hope  I  'm  yer  fririd,  and  ye  ought  to  tell  me." 

"  Oh,  nothin'  at  all— only  Katey  and  the  girls  laughed  when  I  called  you  mo- 
ther, and  said " 

"What  did  they  say?" 

"  Oh,  all  a  folly ! — only  they  said — 't  was  all  a  folly — they  're  very  foolish,  I  'm 
sure." 

"  Well,  but  what  was  it,  a'coushla  ?'         i 

"  Why,  that  there  could  be  only  three  sorts  of  mothers — born  mothers,  and 
step-mothers — and,  and — oh,  it 's  all  a  folly — (poor  Lilly  covered  her  face  with 
her  shawl) — mothers-in-law." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  replied  not,  but  kissed  her  cheek,  and  then  Lilly  flew  up  the  lad- 
der—closed her  door — after  a  pause,  half  opened  it  again,  and,  without  showing 
her  face,  said,  "  Remember,  you  promised  not  to  be  angry  with  Ned." 

Lilly's  feelings  were  both  new  and  painful ;  she  wept  very  bitterly,  as  she  knelt 
at  the  side  of  her  humble  couch,  and  pressed  her  face  to  the  coverlet ;  was  it 
because  her  aunt  was  angry  with  Edward  ?  No ;  for  her  anger  was  like  the 
shower  in  April,  ardent,  but  passing  soon.  Was  she  vexed  at  Edward's  atten- 
tion to  Katey  ?  She  certainly  thought  he  danced,  laughed,  and  jested  with  her 
more  than  was  necessary — but  why  unhappy  at  that  1 — Katey  was  her  friend, 
Edward  her  cousin.  When  Harry  pressed  her  hand  with  so  much  tenderness, 
at  the  cottage  door,  why  did  she  shake  it  from  him,  and  feel  as  if  insulted  ?  Lilly 
knew  not  her  own  heart,  and  wondered  why  she  had  spoken  so  sharply  to  poor 
Harry — Harry,  who  lent  her  books,  and  whose  kindness  was  proverbial  all  over 
the  parish.  She  was  bewildered;  all  she  knew  was,  that  she  was  more  unhappy 
than  ever  she  had  been  in  her  life.  She  sat  long,  trying  to  collect  her  senses, 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  73 

and  at  last  the  rushlight  sank  into  the  socket  of  the  white-ware  candlestick ;  it 
had  been  her  cousin's  present.  Then  she  again  remembered  that,  although  the 
moonbeams  had  long  since  begun  to  peep  through  her  little  window,  Edward 
was  not .  returned ;  she  opened  the  casement,  which  enclosed  only  two  small 
pane's  of  glass :  the  glorious  prospect  lay  before  her,  and  the  watch-light  gleamed 
brightly,  over  the  dark  blue  waters,  from  the  distant  tower  of  Hook.  The  wea- 
ther had  long  been  calm  and  clear,  and  the  full-blown  roses,  that  had  never  felt 
a  rough  blast,  or  a  chilling  shower,  imparted  their  sweet  fragrance  to  the  mid- 
night air ;  the  path  by  which  Edward  would  return  crossed  the  meadow,  and 
her  heart  bounded  when  his  figure  appeared  hastily  striding  homewards.  "  I 
hope  he  did  not  see  me,"  thought  she,  as  she  closed  the  window :  "  yet  why  ? — 
sure  he  's  my  cousin."  In  a  moment  after  the  latch  was  lifted,  and  she  distinctly 
heard  her  aunt  say : 

"  A  purty  time  o'  night,  indeed,  for  you  to  march  home,  Master  Edward  Cas- 
sidy ! — and  to  lave  me,  a  poor  widow,  and  yer  own  mother,  alone  in  this  deso- 
late hut." 

"  It 's  a  comfortable  hut,  thin,"  replied  Edward,  laughing ;  "  and  how  are  ye 
lone,  whin  there 's  Lilly,  and  Ruth — the  dirty  sowl — and  Bran,  to  say  nothin'  of 
ould  puss,  sitting  so  snug  on  the  hearthstone  ?" 

"  How  do  you  know  Lilly 's  here  1  It 's  little  ye  care  about  her,  or  ye  'd  be 
far  from  letting  that  long  gomersal  of  a  fellow,  Harry  Connor,  see  her  home ; 
and  you  flirting  off  with  that  jilting  hussey,  Katey  Turner." 

"  Katey  Turner 's  no  jilt,  or  flirt  either,  but  a  tight,  clane-skinned  little  girl ; 
and  Harry 's  no  gomersal  at  all ;  but  an  honest  fellow,  that  '11  make  a  good  hus- 
band for  my  handsome  cousin,  one  o'  these  days — and  not  long  neither.  What 
a  wedding  we  '11  have  for  sartin !" 

Poor  Lilly's  heart  sickened,  and  her  head  felt  giddy,  as  she  heard  these  words. 
She  never  intended  listening,  but  her  respiration  was  impeded  in  the  deep  anxiety 
with  which  she  waited  for,  yet  dreaded,  her  aunt's  reply.  Mrs.  Cassidy  was 
struggling  for  utterance ;  she  had  seldom,  perhaps  never,  been  so  enraged.  Ned's 
words,  and  perfect  carelessness  of  manner,  had  almost  maddened  her. 

"  Look  ye,  Ned — Ned  Cassidy !"  said  she,  after  a  pause,  during  which  Ed- 
ward saw  the  storm  gathering  fiercely — "  Look,  I  'd  sooner  see  Lilly  stretched 
on  that  table ;  ay,  I  'd  sooner  a  hundred  times,  and  a  thousand  to  the  back  of  it, 
keen  at  her  berrin',  than  see  her  thrown  away  upon  that  ownshugh  !  She 's  for 
his  betthers,  though  little  they  seem  to  think  of  it." 

"  Whew !  whew ! — is  that  what  ye  're  after,  mother  dear  1  Well,  then,  now 
I  '11  jist  tell  ye  the  rights  of  it,  and  then  we'll  drop  it  for  ever,  Amin.  As  to  Lilly, 
a  betther  girl  niver  drew  the  breath  o'  life ;  and  I  regard  and  love  her  as  a  sis- 
ter ;  but  as  to  anything  else,  mother — I  won't  marry ;  I  '11  see  the  world.  And, 
any  how,  she 's  not  the  patthern  o'  the  wife  I  'd  like." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  clenched  her  fist,  and,  holding  it  close  to  her  son's  face,  ejacu- 
lated— "  Holy  Mary  ! — ye  born  villain ! — ye  disobadient  spalpeen  ! — ye  limb  o' 
Satan ! — ye — ye — down  upon  yer  bare  knees,  and  ax  my  pardon  for  crassing 
10 


74 

me ;  or,  by  the  powers !  I  '11  have  father  Mike  himself  here  to-morrow  mornin', 
and  marry  ye  out  o'  hand."  . 

"  I  ax  pardon  for  contradicting  ye,  mother;  but  ye '11  do  no  sich  thing.  Say 
two  more  words  like  that,  and  the  dawn  o'  day  '11  see  me  abord  the  good  ship 
'  Mary,'  that 's  lying  off  Hook-head,  where  they  'd  be  main  glad  of  a  boy  like 
me,  as  I  heard  to-night,  to  go  a  few  voyages,  and  see  the  world." 

"  And  is  this  the  thanks  I  get  for  all  my  love,  ye  scoundrel ;  to  fly  in  my  face 
after  that  manner  ?  •  Ye  may  trot  off  as  soon  as  ye  plase ;  but  the  priest  shall 
know  yer  doings,  my  boy.  Och  !  ye  ungrateful ! — down  this  minit,  as  I  tould 
ye ;  and,  as  God  sees  and  hears  me,  ye  shall  be  married  to  Lilly  before  to-mor- 
row's sun  sets !" 

"  I  see,  mother,  ye  don't  mane  to  listen  to  rason ;  but  one  word  for  all :  by  the 
blessing  o'  God,  I  '11  not  marry  Lilly ;  and  I  don't  care  that — (snapping  his  fin- 
gers)— for  priest  or  minister." 

"  Take  that,  thin,  for  your  comfort,  and  my  heavy  curse  wid  it !"  And,  en- 
raged by  her  son's  so  wilfully  destroying  the  hope  that  had  latterly  been  the  chief 
blessing  of  her  life,  in  her  fury  she  struck  him  a  violent  blow  on  the  face.  Poor 
Lilly  rushed  to  her  door ;  but  her  povyers  were  paralyzed.  She  could  not  undo 
the  simple  fastening,  but  clung  to  the  window,  that  was  close  to  it,  for  support. 
Edward  spoke  not ;  and  his  mother's  arm  sank  by  her  side.  Her  rage  was  abat- 
ing, when  Edward,  bursting  with  smothered  anger,  which  he  pent  up  with  a 
strong  effort,  deliberately  took  his  hat,  walked  to  the  door,  and  out,  without  utter- 
ing a  single  word.  "  Ned,  Ned  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cassidy ;  but  Ned  returned 
not.  Lilly,  pale  and  wild  in  her  appearance,  in  a  few  moments  was  at  her  aunt's 
side.  She  had  seen  the  desperate  haste  with  which  her  cousin  crossed  the  gar- 
den, trampling  the  flowers  in  his  path ;  and,  alarmed  lest  his  passion  should  lead 
him  to  some  dreadful  act,  she  rushed  down  the  stairs. 

"  Oh !  to  think,"  said  she,  "  after  yer  promise,  that  ye  should  be  so  cruel  to 
your  own  child,  and  all  for  one  like  me  !  Oh,  if  I  'd  ha'  thought  it,  sure  the  grass 
shouldn't  be  wet  under  my  feet  before  I  'd  be  far  from  this  house  !  Oh,  call  him 
back — call  him  back ! — and  I  '11  fly  the  place  for  ever !" 

"  He  '11  come  back  fast  enough  I  '11  ingage,"  said  the  widow,  "  he 's  not  sich 
a  fool ;"  she  opened  the  door,  and  saw  in  the  moonlight  his  receding  figure. 

"  He  '11  not,  aunt  Oh,  the  blow ! — the  blow  ! — to  think  of  yer  striking  so  high 
a  spirit,  and  that  'Mary'  lying  off  Hook-head,  and  the  mate  of  her,  Katey's 
uncle,  putting  his  comether  on  Ned  !  Sure  I  saw  it,  only  I  never  thought  it  'ud 
come  to  this,  at  the  weary  dance  to-night." 

"  Indeed  !"  responded  the  mother,  now  really  alive  to  the  danger  of  losing  her 
son.  "  Lilly,  my  darlint,  you  can  save  him ;  fly  ! — you  can  overtake  him ;  there, 
he  hasn't  turned  the  knock  yet ;  tell  him  he  shall  do  as  he  plases ;  say,  that  I  '11 
beg  his  pardon ;  only  as  he  valees  his  mother's  blessing,  not  to  desart  her  in  her 
ould  age." 

Lilly  drew  her  cloak  over  her  head,  and  ran,  as  fast  as  her  strength  permitted, 
after  her  wayward  cousin,  whose  firm,  quick  step,  as  he  paced  towards  the  main 


LILLY  O'BRIEX.  75 

road,  rendered  the  maiden's  fleetness  almost  ineffectual :  but  at  length  she  stood 
panting,  almost  fainting,  at  his  side.  It  was  then  that  a  tide  of  conflicting  feel- 
ings deprived  her  of  utterance ;  for  the  first  time,  she  felt  herself  a  rejected,  de- 
spised creature,  and  that  by  the  being  a  thousand  times  dearer  to  her  heart  than 
life  itself.  When  he  knew  that  she  had  overheard  the  dreadful  conversation  in 
the  cottage,  what  must  he  think  of  her?  Modesty,  the  sweet  blossom  of  purity, 
the  mild  glory  of  woman's  life,  had  been  outraged  by  her  pursuing,  even  in  such 
a  cause,  one  who  disdained  her ;  and,  as  these  ideas  shot  like  fire  through  her 
brain,  she  caught  at  a  tree  for  support,  and  murmured,  "  Holy  Mary,  direct  thy 
child  !"  Edward  spoke  not,  but  looked  on  his  cousin,  with  more  of  bitterness  and 
scorn  than  of  ahy  other  feeling.  Twice  she  tried  to  speak,  but  vainly  she  un- 
closed her  parched  lips.  "  Ned,"  she  at  length  articulated,  "  you  are  going,  I 
know,  to  lave  us ;  her,  I  mane,  your  mother ;  and  you  know,  Ned,  she  has  no 
hope  but  you.  Oh,  Ned !  Ned  ! — in  her  ould  age  do  not  fly  her ;  think  o'  the 
time  when  she  carried  ye  in  sorrow  and  in  bitter  trouble — think " 

"  Of  the  blow  she  gave  me  !"  interrupted  Edward,  fiercely :  "  by  all  the  holy 
saints,  if  a  man,  ay,  my  own  father,  had  dealt  so  with  me,  I  'd — I  'd  have  knocked 
him  down,  and  ground  him  into  the  hard  earth  !"  And  he  stamped  so  violently, 
that  poor  Lilly  was  terrified  at  so  sudden  a  burst  of  passion. 

"  Ned,  you  know  you  provoked  her,  and " 

"  And  so  you,  Lilly,"  he  again  interrupted,  "  you,  with  all  yer  modesty  and 
quietness,  you,  collogued  against  me  too :  and  that 's  the  upshot  of  your  coming 
among  us  !  Och  !  och  !  I  thought  ye  had  a  more  dacent  spirit  than  to  follow  a 
boy  to  ax  him  to  marry  ye,  and  he  yer  cousin !"  Lilly,  roused  by  this  unjust 
sarcasm,  was  collected  in  a  moment ;  drawing  her  slight  yet  dignified  figure  to 
its  full  height,  she  shook  back  the  beautiful  hair  that  had  clustered  over  her 
mournful  countenance,  and  stood  firm  and  erect,  with  the  beams  of  the  chaste 
full  moon  gleaming  upon  her  uncovered  head. 

"  Ye  don't  know  me,  then ;  and  I  have  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  ye 
three  years  and  more ;  but  ye  don't  know  me,  Edward  Cassidy :  if,  by  axing  the 
powerful  king  of  England,  who  sits  on  his  throne,  to  make  me  his  queen,  it  could 
be  done — the  poor  orphan  girl  would  scorn  it !  Lilly  O'Brien  followed  ye  not  for 
that.  The  grate  God,  that  sees  all  hearts,  knows  that  the  words  I  spake  are 
true.  Never,  till  this  woful  night,  did  I  think  that  yer  mother  wished  me  to  be 
nearer  to  her  than  I  am.  Ye  bitterly  wronged  me ;  but  that 's  not  what  I  came 
to  say.  I  tell  ye  that  yer  mother  begs  ye  to  come  back ;  and  not  to  trust  to  the 
wild  sea,  when  every  comfort  in  life  is  for  ye  on  land.  She  asks  ye  to  forget ; 
she  even  begs  of  ye,  for  Christ's  sake,  to  forgive  the  blow ;  but  stop,  that 's  not 
all — I,  the  desolate  orphan,  who  have,  innocent-like,  been  the  cause  of  all  this 
misery — I  beg  of  you,  you  that  so  insulted  and  wronged  me — and  I  do  to  you 
what  I  never  did  to  any  yet,  but  my  heavenly  comforters  —  on  my  two  knees, 
1  beg  ye  to  return.  Edward  Cassidy,  ye  shall  see  me  no  more.  I  have 
no  other  home,  but  I  am  young,  and,  for  a  poor  girl,  not  ignorant,  praise  be 
to  your  mother  for  it.  I  will  quit  the  house  for  ever ;  ay,  before  the  sun  rises. 


76 

Do  not  let  me  feel  that  I  have  driven  the  fatherless  boy  to  labour,  may-be  to 
ruin." 

She  raised  her  clasped  hands  as  she  spoke,  and  her  eyes,  filled  with  the  pure 
light  of  virtue,  met  the  wild  gaze  of  her  cousin. 

"  Lilly,"  he  replied,  raising  her  from  the  ground,  and  looking  upon  her  more 
kindly,  "  things  must  go  on  as  they  are.  What  comfort  would  my  mother — 
God  help  her ! — have  without  you  ?  I  have  been  a  trouble  and  a  plague  to  her 
— but  you  have  been  like  an  own  tender  child,  and  smoothened  every  step.  I  '11 
go  to  sea  for  a  while — it  'ill  be  long  afore  I  can  forget  what  she  did  to-night; 
whatever  divil  tempted  us  both  to  sich  anger.  I  '11  be  well  to  do  in  the  same 
ship  wid  Katey's  uncle,  and  ye  '11  all  be  glad  to  see  me,  may-be,  whin  I  come 
back.  And  Lilly,  I  ax  yer  pardon  for  saying  the  say  I  did  of  you ;  it  wasn't 
from  the  heart,  only  the  temper.  I  DO  know  ye  betther;  and  my  friend,  Harry 
Connor,  'ill  be  a  happy  man  yet,  if  ye  '11  only  jist  give  him  that  young  heart  that 's 
as  innocent  as  the  new-born  babe.  And  now,  God  be  wid  ye!  The  'Mary' 
may  sail  at  day-brake  for  what  I  know  to  the  contrary.  God  bless  ye !" 

The  heedless  youth  hastened  on. 

"  Oh,  Ned,  Ned ! — and  won't  ye  say  a  word,  or  even  make  a  sign,  that  I  may 
tell  yer  mother  all  is  pace?"  He  stopped  and  waved  his  hat  over  his  head,  and 
the  belting  of  many  foliage  trees,  that  enclosed  Mr.  Herriott's  estate,  hid  him 
from  her  sight.  Tears  came  to  her  relief,  and  she  felt  happy  that  Edward  did 
not  suspect  how  dearly  she  loved  him.  She  turned  homeward  with  a  sorrowing 
heart,  and  was  proceeding  slowly  on,  when  Peggy  the  Fisher's  little  black  dog, 
Coal  (we  beg  his  pardon  for  not  mentioning  the  very  busy,  ugly  little  gentleman 
before),  ran  out  of  a  break  in  the  adjoining  hedge,  and  renewed  his  acquaint- 
ance with  Lilly,  by  jumping  and  whining  in  that  peculiar  tone  which  shows  a 
more  than  friendly  recognition.  Lilly  was  astonished ;  but  still  more  so  when 
the  flattened  hat  and  round  rosy  face  of  Peggy  appeared  through  the  same 
opening. 

"  Why,  then,  Miss  Lilly,  dear,  is  it  yer  fetch  ? — or  where  are  ye  moving  along, 
like  a  fairy  queen,  in  the  green  meadows  by  the  moonlight?  Ah,  gramachree  !" 
she  continued,  forcing  her  way  through  the  hedge,  "  ye  look  like  a  spirit,  sure 
enough  !  My  poor  colleen  !  Sorrow  soon  withers  the  likes  o'  you." 

Lilly  felt  sadly  mortified,  for  she  had  little  doubt  that  Peggy  had  overheard 
the  conversation  between  her  and  Edward.  And,  although  "the  Fisher"  kept 
love  secrets  with  extraordinary  fidelity,  yet  she  certainly  did  not  wish  to  trust 
her. 

"  So  he 's  gone,  the  obstinate  mule ! — but  I  ax  yer  pardon.  I  hard  every  word 
of  it,  over  the  place,  just  by  accident,  as  a  body  may  say ;  for  you  see,  mavour- 
neen,  I  was  waiting  for  a  particklar  frind  that  promised  to  meet  me  about  a  lit- 
tle bit  o'  business  that  can't  just  be  done  by  daylight,  on  account  of  the  law. 
Och !  it 's  hard  for  a  lone  woman  to  get  a  bit  o'  dacent  bread ;  and  the  free 
rovers  thimselves  are  getting  so  'cute  that  ther's  no  coming  up  to  thim  at  all,  at 
all ;  but  I  'm  keeping  ye  here,  and  the  poor  woman  'ill  be  half  mad  till  she  hears 


77 

tidings  o'  Ned,  the  boy.  I  '11  walk  a  step  wid  ye,  and  be  back  time  enough  yet. 
God  help  me !  I  must  travel  to  Hook  and  Ballyhack  too,  the  morrow  mornin'. 
Och  !  but  it 's  hard  to  'arn  an  honest  pinny  in  this  wicked  world."  And  the  lady 
smuggler  crossed  herself  very  devoutly. 

"Hook!  are  ye  going  to  Hook' to-morrow  mornin' ?"  inquired  Lilly. 

"  Plase  God,  I  '11  do  that  same." 

"  Oh,  Peggy,  thin,  it  would  be  an  act  o'  charity  just  to  take  Ned  some  o'  his 
bits  o'  clothes  and  things;  if  he  will  go,  sure  he  ought  to  go  dacent;  and  I'll 
make  up  the  bundle  for  him,  and  lave  it  under  the  black  thorn,  in  an  hour  or 
two ;  for  I  '11  try  and  get  her  to  bed — the  Lord  console  her ! — and  stale  thim  out 
like,  for  I  know  she  '11-  be  too  angry  to  send  him  any  comfort  yet  a  bit,  and  the 
ship  may  sail  before  she  comes  to  herself." 

"  Why,  thin,  that 's  wise  and  good,  the  colleen  'gra — but  sure  you  're  the  last 
that  ought  to  grieve  after  the  boy ;  it  'ill  be  well  for  you,  for  sartin ;  the  ould 
woman  has  all  in  her  own  power — and  sure  it's  to  the  one  .that  bides  wid  her 
she  '11  lave  it.  Mind  yer  hits,  and " 

"What  d'ye  mane  by  spakeing  to  me  after  that  fashion?"  said  Lilly,  darting 
a  look  of  anger  on  her  companion,  which,  if  Peggy  could  have  seen,  she  must 
have  felt.  "  How  d'  ye  think  I  could  get  such  bitter  black  blood  in  my  veins,  as 
to  plan  such  divil's  mischief  as  that !  Keep  that  sort  of  advice  for  thim  that  '11 
put  up  with  it ;  Lilly  O'Brien  scorns  it." 

"  Hullabullo !  there  we  go !  Well,  if  ye  're  so  wrapt  up  in  thim  that  doesn't 
care  a  skreed  for  ye,  why  ye  'd  betther  just  go  to  the  fairy  woman  and  get  a 
charm,  and  bring  him  back,  my  purty  Miss." 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what,  Peggy — I  don't  meddle  or  make  with  anybody,  and  nobody 
need  meddle  or  make  with  me ;  nobody  can  say  agin  my  liking  my  cousin — and 
why  not  ?  My  aunt  meant  all  kindly  to  both ;  but  the  thorns  are  sown  and 
grown ;  and  sure  it 's  heart  sorrow  to  think  o'  his  flitting  from  his  own  home ; 
but  if  he  was  willin'  this  minute  to  take  me  afore  the  priest,  d'  ye  think  I  'd  have 
the  hand  and  not  the  heart  1  Fairy  woman,  indeed !  I  've  no  belief  in  such 
nonsense." 

"  Oh,  to  hear  how  she  spakes  o'  the  good  people,  and  the  very  spot  we  're  in, 
may-be — Lord  save  us  ! — full  o'  thim  !  Well,  there 's  the  house — I  '11  take  the 
bundle  safe,  agra."  She  stopped  for  a  moment  to  watch  Lilly  enter  the  cottage, 
and  then  muttered  :  "  I  can't  make  her  out ;  she 's  either  a  born  nataral,  or  some- 
thing much  above  the  common." 

Lilly  O'Brien  found  it  a  painful  duty  to  administer  consolation,  where  she  her- 
self so  much  needed  it;  but,  after  all,  continual  employment  is  the  best  balm  to 
the  sorrowing  mind.  Save  that  her  cheek  was  somewhat  paler,  and  her  gentle 
smile  less  frequent,  six  months  had  made  little  change  in  my  sweet  Lilly's  ap- 
pearance. Not  so  was  it,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  with  Mrs.  Cassidy,  poor  woman ! 
she  felt  her  son's  desertion,  as  a  mother  only  can  feel ;  but  still  more  she  grieved, 
when  week  after  week  passed,  and  the  Bannow  postman  brought  no  letter  from 
the  wandering  boy.  Post  evenings  found  her  at  the  end  of  the  lane  that  led  to 


78  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

her  cottage,  anxiously  watching  John  Williams's  approach.  Still,  no  letter 
cheerecTher  broken,  restless  spirit ;  though  she  would  never  confess  that  she 
wandered  forth  on  this  errand,  every  Monday  and  Friday  found  her  on  the  same 
spot ;  and  she  was  on  those  days  more  bustling  and  fidgety  than  usual.  Some- 
times she  would  abuse  the  absent  one  in  no  gentle  terms ;  but  Lilly  never  failed 
to  remember  some  kind  act  of  her  cousin's,  and  her  low  musical  voice,  in  the 
soft  tones  of  unaffected  feeling,  was  ever  ready  to  plead  for  him.  At  other  pe- 
riods the  widow  would  weep  like  a  child  over  some  little  circumstance  that 
brought  Ned  to  her  recollection.  The  flowers  he  planted  blossomed— or  the 
bee-hives  he  had  watched  wanted  thatching — or  the  table  he  made  lost  its  leg. 
Lilly  never  mentioned  him,  except  when  her  aunt  led  to  it ;  but  her  eyelid  was 
often  heavy  with  tears. 

Luckily  for  all  parties,  an  event  occurred  that  fully  employed,  for  the  time, 
my  worthy  old  friend's  thoughts  and  actions. 

The  windmill,  that,  from  the  landlord's  depending  on  the  steward  to  get  it 
repaired  —  from  the  steward's  depending  on  the  mason  to  see  to  it  —  from  the 
mason's  depending  on  the  thatcher — the  thatcher  on  the  carpenter — the  carpen- 
ter on  somebody,  or  nobody,  or  anybody  but  himself  (after  the  true  Irish  fashion) 
—  the  windmill,  Mrs.  Cassidy's  particular  aversion  —  the  windmill! — that  had 
suffered  a  paralysis  for  more  than  five  years,  although  everybody  said  how  use- 
ful it  could  be  made — the  windmill  was  repaired,  furnished  with  new  wings,  and 
commenced  operations  within  the  short  space  of  three  weeks,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  natives,  who  (I  must  confess  it,  however  unwillingly)  are  like  all 
their  countrymen  and  women,  the  most  procrastinating  race  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Mrs.  Cassidy  was  annoyed  beyond  measure.  The  Quern  was  kept  in 
constant  motion,  and  Lilly  was  left  at  home  in  "  pace  and  quietness,"  while  her 
aunt  sidled  from  house  to  house,  exhibiting  specimens  of  the  flour  ground  in  her 
own  cottage,  and  contrasting  it  with  what  she  termed  "  the  coorse  trash  o'  bran- 
ny  stuff,  made  up  o'  what  not,  that  comes  out  o'  that  grinder  a'  top  o'  the  hill." 

Mrs.  Cassidy  was  from  home ;  Lilly  had  finished  her  allotted  portion  of  flour, 
and  was  quietly  preparing  the  frugal  supper,  when  our  old  acquaintance,  Peggy 
the  Fisher,  and  Peggy's  little  dog,  Coal,  entered  the  cottage.  Lilly  had  never 
forgotten  the  low  cunning  the  Fisher  had  evinced  on  the  evening,  every  trans- 
action of  which  she  so  perfectly — too  perfectly — remembered;  and  her  pale 
cheek  flushed,  and  a  shadow  passed  over  her  brow,  as  she  returned  the  greeting 
of  the  village  busybody. 

"  I  'm  not  for  staying ;  may-be  I  'm  not  over  welcome,  Miss  Lilly — but  never 
mind,  agra !  Whin  people 's  angry  wid  people,  and  all  for  good  advice,  given 
from  the  heart,  and  wid  good  intintioh,  all  through — why  people  must  only  put 
up  wid  it  until  other  people  see  the  rights  o'  it.  Well,  my  dear  young  cratur, 
it's  little  ye  knows  o'  the  world  yet;  ah!  it's  a  bad  world  for  a  dacent  poor 
lone  woman  to  get  a  bit  o'  bread  in.  But  sure  you  '11  not  be  lone  in  it ;  I  seen  a 
handsome  boy  not  tin  minutes  agone,  that  'ud  give  his  best  eye — (and,  troth,  it 


LILLY  O'BRIEN. 


79 


'ud  be  hard  to  choose  betwixt  'em)  for  one  look  o'  love  from  ye,  as  I  hard  him 
say,  many 's  the  day  ago,  with  my  own  two  ears." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  it,  Peggy,  if  what  you  say  is  true ;  for  no  one  in  the  wide 
world  do  I  love,  barring  my  own  poor  aunt." 

"  Asy,  child  !  Sure  I  'm  not  axing  ye  any  questions — only,  it 's  long,  may-be, 
since  ye  hard  from  beyant  seas  ?" 

"  My  aunt  has  never  heard  from  Ned  since  he  quitted,"  replied  Lilly. 

"  Well,  may-be  so  best.     No  news  is  good  news,  they  say." 

"  I  hope  so." 

"  Now,  what  'ud  ye  say  to  a  poor  body  that  'ud  tell  ye  something  ?" 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Lilly ;  "  it  would  depend  upon  what  that  some- 
thing was." 

"  Well,  thin,  here  it  is ;"  and  Peggy  drew  a  dirty,  sailor-like  letter  from  her 
bosom,  and  placed  it  in  Lilly's  outstretched  hand.  "  There,  my  colleen  'gra  ! — 
it's  from  Ned,  sure  enough;  and  for  yerself.  One  who  brought  it  tould  me,  for 
I  've  no  laming ;  how  should  a  lone  cratur  like  me  get  it !  but  it 's  little  ye  '11  like 
the  news  that 's  in  it ;  and  I  don't  know  how  the  ould  'ooman  'ill  like  it,  at  all,  at 
all."  Lilly  stood  unable  to  inquire,  unable  to  open  the  letter  she  had  so  long 
wished  for.  Peggy,  with  her  usual  sagacity,  saw  the  dilemma,  and,  settling  the 
basket  on  her  head,  departed,  with  "  God  be  wid  ye,  mavourneen !"  Lilly  broke 
the  wafer  with  trembling  hand,  and  read  as  follows : — 


80  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

"  DEAR.  COUSIN, 

"  This  comes  hoping  you  and  my  mother  is  well,  as  I  am  at  present — thanks  be 
to  God  for  the  same ! — and  likes  the  sea ;  but  the  land,  somehow,  is  a  saferrer 
life :  particular  for  a  family  man,  as  I  am,  having  married  out  o'  love,  a  girl  I  'm 
not  ashamed  of;  an  English  born  and  bred,  and  well  iddicated  and  mannered  as 
need  be  for  a  boy  like  me.  I  'd  have  written  afore,  but  didn't  know  how  it  'ud 
end,  as  I  was  terrible  in  love.  And  now  I  ax  my  mother's  blessing.  And,  Lilly 
dear,  it 's  you  that  can  get  that  for  me ;  and  I  know  ye  '11  do  your  best  to  make 
things  comfortable.  I  'm  sorry  mother  and  I  parted  in  anger ;  but  it  will  be  all 
for  the  best  in  regard  of  the  wife.  And  I  intind  bringing  her  home  to  ye,  and 
we  '11  all  be  happy  thegither  agin,  plase  God ;  and  I  'm  detarmined  my  child 
sha'n't  be  an  Englishman,  so  I  mean  my  mother  to  be  grandmother  soon,  and  ax 
her  to  love  Lucy — she 's  handsomer  than  her  name,  and  had  a  good  penny  o' 
money  too,  only  it 's  clane  gone ;  things  are  dreadful  dear  here;  and  I  know 
you  '11  love  her,  for  you  were  always  kind.  And  I  beg  you  to  write  by  return 
of  post,  and  send  a  trifle  o'  money ;  as,  for  the  credit  o'  my  people,  I  'd  like  to 
return  home  dacent.  Lucy  joins  me  in  love  and  duty ;  and  trusting  to  yer  good 
word,  rests  yer  affictionate  friend  and  cousin  till  death,  E.  CASSIDY." 

Lilly  sat  long  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  letter ;  she  did  not  weep ;  but  her 
cheek  was  ashy  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  swollen.  Poor  girl ! — she  had  used  her 
best  efforts  to  root  love  from  her  heart,  or  to  calm  it  into  that  friendship  which 
she  considered  duty ;  yet  the  shock  she  received,  when  the  full  truth  was  known, 
that  Edward  was  actually  married,  and  returning  with  his  wife  to  Bannow,  was 
almost  too  great  for  her  to  bear.  She  read  the  letter  over  and  over  again ;  and 
at  last  sank  on  her  knees,  earnestly  imploring  God  to  direct  and  keep  her  in  the 
right  way.  She  arose,  strengthened  and  refreshed  by  the  pious  exercise,  and 
her  pure  and  noble  mind  saw  at  once  the  course  that  was  to  be  pursued.  Then 
she  reflected  on  her  plan.  Her  aunt,  she  knew,  would  be  terribly  enraged  at 
his  marrying  at.  all.  But  an  Englishwoman — a  Protestant,  most  likely — it  was 
dreadful ! 

"  Lilly,  my  darlint,  what  are  ye  in  such  a  study  about  ?"  said  the  old  woman, 
as  she  entered.  "  I  've  good  news  for  ye — that  vagabone  mill — but  save  us ! — 
why  ye  're  like  one  struck ! — has  anything  turned  contrary  ?  It 's  not  post-night, 
nor — what  ails  ye,  child  ?  Can't  ye  spake  at  onct  ?" 

"  Sit  down,  aunt,  dear;  there  's  a  letter  from  Ned,  and  he  is  alive  and  well." 
"  Thank  God  for  all  his  mercies  to  me  and  mine !     Well,  child  ?" 
"  And  he 's  tired  o'  the  sea,  and  coming  home ;  and  sure  ye  '11  resave  him 
kindly,  aunt  ?" 

"  The  cratur !  and  sure  I  will ;  why  not  1  Sure  it  was  only  a  boy's  wildness 
after  all  Resave  him  !  after  not  setting  my  two  eyes  upon  him  for  a  whole  tin 
months !  Sure  I  will — and  he  '11  like  home  all  the  betther !  Och,  I  'm  so  happy  !" 
The  poor  woman  threw  her  arms  around  Lilly's  neck,  and  kissed  her  affection- 
ately. "  But  what  makes  ye  look  so  grave,  my  own  colleen,  that  '11  be  my  raal — " 


81 

"  Hush !  whist !  for  God's  sake,  my  dear,  dear,  dear  aunt !"  And  Lilly  fell  on 
her  knees :  "  Aunt  dear,  the  night  you  and  Ned  had  the  bitter  battle,  ye  promised 
me  ye  would  not  vex  him ;  yet  ye  did." 

"Well,  agrar 

"  Well,  ye  say  the  same  thing  now ;  and  yet,  may-be,  ye  'd  do  the  same  thing 
agin  for  all  that !" 

"  Well,  Lilly,  darlint,  there 's  no  dread  in  life  of  it  now,  I  am  so  continted ; 
but  where 's  the  letter  1  read  me  the  letter — I  knew  he  'd  come  back ;  I " 

"  Aunt,  I  humbly  ax  yer  pardon  ,•  have  I,  since  Ned  left  ye,  ever  angered 
ye?" 

"  Never,  my  colleen." 

"  Then  grant  me  this  one  prayer — may-be  the  last  I  '11  ever  ax  ye,  aunt ! — 
swear,  by  this  blessed  book,  never  to  reproach  Ned  with  anything  that  is  gone 
and  past ;  but  to  take  him  to  your  own  fond  heart,  and  trate  him  as  a  son  for 
ever." 

"  It 's  a  quare  humour,  my  darlint,  but  I  can't  refuse  ye  anything  to-night,  I  'm 
so  happy ;  and  the  letther  to  you  and  all,  as  fitting !"  She  took  the  prayer-book 
in  her  hand — "  To  swear  to  forget  all  that 's  past  is  it,  mavourneen  ? — and  to  trate 
him " 

"  Say,  him  and  his — him  and  his,"  interrupted  Lilly,  breathlessly. 

"  That  I  will,"  replied  Mrs.  Cassidy,  "  and  with  all  the  veins  of  my  heart ;  to 
forget  all  that 's  past,  and  trate  him  and  his  with  love  and  kindness  to  the  end  of 
my  days." 

She  kissed  the  cross  on  the  page  of  the  prayer-book,  after  the  manner  of  her 
religion,  and  was  going  to  do  the  same  to  Lilly's  fair  forehead — when  she  ejacu- 
lated, "  Thank  God  !"  and  fainted  in  her  aunt's  arms.  She  remained  long  insen- 
sible, and  when  the  kind  woman's  efforts  succeeded  in  restoring  her,  the  first 
words  the  poor  girl  heard  were  —  "  that 's  my  darlint  child  !  —  rouse  up ;  there, 
lane  your  head  on  my  shoulder ;  no  wonder,  agra !  he  'd  think  o'  those  curls, 
and  that  gentle  face,  and  that  sweet  voice  that  falls  upon  the  ear  widout  ever 
disturbing  it !  Oh,  sure  ye  '11  be  my  raal  child  !  I  see  it  all :  fitting  to  be  sure 
that  the  letther  should  be  to  you.  Sure  he  could  not  but  remimber  my  darlint 
Lilly !  Och,  but  I  'm  the  happiest  woman  this  minit  in  the  big  world,  let  t'other 
be  who  she  will !" 

A  loud  and  heavy  groan,  as  if  the  last  effort  of  a  bursting  heart,  which  the 
maiden  could  not  suppress,  stayed  the  old  woman's  speech,  and  fixed  her  atten- 
tion again  on  Lilly's  ghastly  features — "  Tell  me  directly,  this  minij,  my  bro- 
ther's own  child — tell  me,  is  there  anything  in  that  letther  you  've  not  tould  me, 
as  you  wish  to  be  happy  ?  Is  Ned  coming  home  ?"  Lilly  moved  her  head  in 
assent.  "  Is  he  well  and  happy  ?" 

"  Yes,  aunt,  yes." 

"  Then,  in  holy  Peter's  name,  my  lanna,  what  is  it  ails  ye  1  Sure  I  see  long 
enough  ago  that  ye  loved  him  in  yer  heart's  core ;  and  now — praise  be  to  God  . 
11 


82  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

— whin  ye  '11  be  married,  and  my  heart  at  pace,  ye  're  taking  on  as  if  the  boy 
was  kilt  intirely !  Sure,  whin  ye  're  married " 

"  Aunt,  for  the  blessed  Virgin's  sake,  name  that  last  no  more,  for  it  can't  be  !" 

"  Don't  dare  to  tell  me  that,  unless  ye  mane  to  start  the  life  out  o'  me  at  onct ! 
Lilly,  Lilly !  sure,  girl,  ye  've  not  been  listening  to  Harry,  and  promised  un- 
knowns't  to  me,  out  o'  maidenly  anger  with  Ned  ?  If  ye  marry  Harry  Connor, 
Lilly,  ye '11  sup  sorrow,  for  it's  a  folly  to  talk,  child — yer  heart's  not  in  it." 

"  I  '11  never  marry  either  Ned  or  Harry,  aunt,  so  don't  mintion  it." 

"  The  girl 's  gone  mad,  clane  mad,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy,  angrily.  "  Why,  what 's 
to  put  betwixt  you  and  Ned  now  7" 

"  His  wife !"  replied  Lilly,  solemnly,  and  for  the  first  time  pronouncing  the 
word  which  banished  every  lingering  hope  from  her  heart ;  "  his  lawful  wife ; 
who,"  she  added,  "  though  born  in  a  far  counthry,  will  make  ye  a  good  daugh- 
ter, and  a  loving,  when  I  lave  ye." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  terrific  rage  of  Mrs.  Cassidy,  when 
informed  of  all  the  particulars ;  even  her  noble-minded  niece  suffered  from  it ; 
for  when,  forgetful  of  her  oath,  she  declared  Ned  and  his  heretic  wife  should 
never  find  refuge  in  her  house,  "  Remember,"  Lilly  would  say,  and,  as  she  spoke, 
the  large  tears  would  shower  down  her  cheeks — "  you  swore  on  the  blessed  book 
to  forget  the  past,  and  trate  him  and  his  with  kindness  to  the  end  of  yer  days." 
Then  Mrs.  Cassidy  reproached  Lilly  with  "  colloguing"  against  her ;  with  "join- 
ing the  whole  world  to  make  her  desolate ;"  with  "  brakeing  her  ould  heart," 
and  "  splitting  it  into  smithereens."  Then  she  raved  about  Ned,  and  his  strange 
wife,  and  concluded  with — "  I  '11  bet  my  life  she 's  no  betther  nor  she  should  be." 

"  Oh,  aunt,  how  can  ye  say  sich  a  word !  D'  ye  think  Ned  'ud  be  the  boy  to 
bring  black  shame  to  his  mother's  hearth-stone  ?  Oh,  no !  Protestant  she  is — 
and  English — and  all  that — but  not  bad ;  don't  think  that,  any  how." 

"  Well,  any  how,  Lilly,  if  a  boy  sarved  me  as  you  've  been  sarved,  I  'd  skiver 
his  heart  to  his  backbone.  I  wish  ye  had  a  betther  spirit  in  ye." 

Lilly  replied  not,  but  heartily  rejoiced  when  the  good  lady's  anger  and  repin- 
ings  were  hushed  in  a  sound  sleep.  She  entered  her  own  room,  and  counted 
over  her  savings,  for  Mrs.  Cassidy  had  ever  given  more  than  supplied  her  wants. 
She  had  hoarded,  not  from  selfishness,  but  from  a  feeling  of  generosity,  that  she 
might  have  the  means  of  assisting  some  of  her  poorer  neighbours ;  and  this  she 
had  often  done.  With  her  hands,  as  well  as  with  her  money,  had  she  bestowed 
cleanliness  and  comfort  to  many  a  neighbour's  cottage.  Her  little  store  only 
amounted  to  three  one-pound  notes,  and  a  few  shillings ;  the  former  she  carefully 
wrapt  up,*and  wrote  as  follows  to  her  cousin : — 

"  DEAR  NED, 

"  I  could  not  ask  yer  mother  to  send  you  much  money  now,  and  I  think  she  'd 
just  as  soon,  when  ye  come,  that  ye  didn't  mention  at  all  having  resaved  it,  be- 
case  it 's  so  little,  on  account  e'  Lady-day  being  nigh  at  hand,  and  the  rent  to 
make  up,  and  money  not  plenty ;  and  we  '11  be  glad  to  get  ye  back,  and  the  young 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  83 

woman  that 's  my  cousin  now,  too.     My  aunt 's  angry  yet,  but  she  '11  soon  come 
about.     Let  me  know  aforehand,  the  day  we  may  expect  ye ;  and,  with  prayers 
that  heaven  may  rain  down  blessings  on  you  and  yours,  I  rest, 
"  Your  sincere 

"  Well-wisher  and  cousin, 

"  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 
"Inside,  three  pounds."    • 

The  early  grey  of  morning  saw  Lilly  pattering  along  the  sea-shore  in  search 
of  Peggy  the  Fisher.  This  busy  woman  often  lodged  at  a  little  cottage  near 
the  cliffs,  that  belonged  to  one  Daniel  McCleary,  a  man  of  doubtful  character, 
as  regarded  the  revenue.  Lilly  thought  it  not  unlikely  that  Peggy  would  be 
there:  so  towards  it  she  directed  her  steps.  The  sun  had  not  even  tinged  the 
eastern  clouds  with  his  earliest  rays,  and  the  ocean  rolled  in  heavy  masses  of 
leaden-coloured  billows  towards  the  shore,  save  where,  here  and  there,  amid  the 
mistiness  of  morning,  a  fantastic  rock,  rooted  in  the  "  vasty  deep,"  raised  its  dark 
head,  prouder  even  than  the  proud  waves  that  foamed  for  a  moment  angrily  at 
its  base,  and  then  passed  on.  The  cabin  she  sought  was  so  miserable,  that  its 
mud  walls  and  blackened  thatch,  overgrown  with  lichens  and  house-leek,  were 
hardly  distinguishable  from  the  long  fern  and  bulrush  that  grew  round  it ;  it  rest- 
ed against  (indeed,  one  of  its  sides  was  part  of )  a  huge  mound  of  mingled  rock 
and  yellow  clay ;  and  at  spring-tides  the  sea  advanced  so  very  near,  that  the 
neighbours  wondered  McCleary  remained  there.  There  were  two  paths  ap- 
proaching this  hovel ;  one  from  the  country  across  the  marshy  moor  that  stretch- 
ed in  front ;  the  other  from  the  cliffs  which  partly  overshadowed  it.  Lilly  pur- 
sued the  latter,  but  was  a  good  deal  surprised  at  observing  a  very  dark  cloud 
of  smoke  issuing  from  an  aperture  in  the  roof  which  constituted  a  chimney. 
She  went  on,  looking  at  the  smoke,  and  endeavouring  to  guess  its  cause ;  when, 
suddenly,  she  felt  her  footing  give  way,  and  almost  at  the  same  moment  discov- 
ered that  she  had  fallen  into  an  excavation,  not  deep,  but  extensive.  Before  she 
had  time  to  look  around  her,  the  exclamation  of  "  Tunder  and  turf! — what  divil 
brought  ye  here  ?"  from  the  lips  of  Peggy  herself,  astonished  Lilly  beyond  con- 
ception. Ere  she  could  reply,  three  or  four  wild-looking  men,  not  one  of  whom 
she  recognised,  gathered  round  her :  the  red,  flickering  light  given  by  a  peat  and 
furze  fire,  and  a  few  miserable  candles,  stuck  without  any  apparent  fastening 
against  the  clayey  walls ;  the  heaps  of  grain  piled  to  the  very  roof;  the  black- 
ened iron  pots  of  all  sizes ;  dirty  tin  machines,  such  as  she  had  never  before 
seen ;  and,  above  all,  the  smell  of  turf  and  whiskey,  convinced  poor  Lilly  that 
she  had  tumbled  into  an  illicit  distillery,  the  existence  of  which,  although  within 
half-a-mile  of  her  own  home,  she  had  never  suspected. 

"  Peg,  ye  ould  cat,  ye  've  sould  the  pass  on  us  !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  men, 
whose  bare  sinewy  arms  and  glaring  eye  told  both  of  strength  and  violence. 

"  Look  out,  Jack,  for  God's  sake  '"  whispered  another ;  "  who  knows  but  the 
young  one  has  a  troop  o'  red-coats  at  her  heels !" 


84  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

"  Divil  drive  'em !"  said  a  ferocious-looking  fellow,  with  a  pitchfork ;  "  we  're 
done  up  fairly  now,  and  there 's  nothin'  for  it  but  to  skiver  the  both,  and  thin  jist 
trate  'em  to  a  could  bath  this  fine  mornin'." 

"What's  the  row?"  inquired  Daniel  McCleary  himself,  coming  forward. 
"  Hey,  powers  above !  ye  ould  traitor  (turning  to  Peggy,  who  stood  with  her 
arms  folded,  and  managed  to  hold  her  tongue  for  a  time),  is  it  you  that  brought 
Miss  Lilly  here  ? — we  're  ruinated.  Och !  Peggy,  Peggy,  to  think  ye  'd  turn  in- 
former !" 

«  Me — is  it  me  ? — ye  lying  vagabone ! — Me  1 — ye  desarve  to  be  briled  alive ; 
to  be  scalded  to  death  in  yer  own  potteen  'ud  be  too  dacent  a  death  for  ye.  Me, 
an  informer ! — the  back  o'  my  hand  to  ye,  Dan  McCleary,  for  ever,  Amin.  As 
for  you,  Mick  Doole,"  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  placed  her  arms  a-kimbo,  and  ad- 
vanced to  the  knight  of  the  pitchfork ;  "  you  were  niver  good — egg  nor  bird — 
nor  niver  will  be,  plase  God.  And  as  to  skivering,  Mick  Doole,  may-be  ye  '11 
be  skivered  or  worse,  as  nate  as  a  Michaelmas  goose,  yerself,  afore  long,  only  I 
scorn  to  talk  o'  sich  things.  Paddy  Leary !  oh,  it 's  you  that 's  the  brave  man ; 
look  out  for  the  red-coats ;  ah  !  ah !  ah  !  fait,  an'  it  'ud  be  good  fun  to  see  that 
innocent  young  cratur  marching  at  the  head  of  a  rigiment,  after  yer  bits  o'  stills, 
that,  it 's  my  thought,  she  knew  nothin'  about  till  this  blissid  minit !  Sure  it 's 
myself  was  struck  to  see  her  tumbling  upon  a  hape  o'  barley,  through  the  black 
roof,  like  a  snowball.  Spake  out,  my  lannan !  Sure  ye  niver  did  that  ye  'd  be 
ashamed  to  tell,  and  that 's  what  none  here  can  say  but  yerself." 

"  Ay,"  added  the  first  speaker,  "  we  '11  listen  to  rason." 

"  For  the  first  time  in  yer  life,  thin,"  muttered  Peggy. 

"  You  gave  me  a  letter  last  night,"  and  Lilly  turned  to  the  Fisher  as  she 
spoke. 

"  True  for  ye,  it  was  he,"  pointing  to  McCleary,  "  brought  it  from  Wather- 
ford." 

"  It  required  a  quick  answer.  I  couldn't  get  John  Williams  to  take  it,  by  ra- 
son he  doesn't  go  till  to-morrow ;  and  I  thought  that  you,  Peggy,  'ud  be  on  the 
trot  somewhere  near  a  post,  so  I  wrote  it  last  night,  and  thinking  ye  'd  put  up 
at  Dan  Cleary's,  'cause  ye  often  do,  I  came  early  to  try,  for  fear  I  'd  miss  of  ye, 
and  ill-luck  sent  me  the  cliff  path,  and  all  of  a  sudden  I  fell  into  this  wild  place ; 
out  o'  which  the  Lord  will,  I  hope,  deliver  the  poor  orphan  in  safety." 

Lilly's  tall,  slight  figure,  and  flowing  hair,  contrasted  with  the  stout  form  of 
the  Fisher,  who  stood  a  little  in  front ;  the  rosary  and  a  cross  hanging  from  the 
arm  which  retained  its  a-kimbo  position ;  while  the  scarlet  kerchief  that  confined 
her  grizzled  locks  fell,  like  a  cowl,  from  the  back  of  her  head,  and  fully  exposed 
her  large  bronzed  features,  which  showed  in  strong  relief,  as  the  light  from  the 
crackling  fire  flashed  occasionally  on  them.  Mick  Doole,  large  and  bony  enough 
for  one  of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  the  Giant's  Causeway,  leaning  on  his  pitch- 
fork, and  looking  as  if  the  roof  rested  on  his  huge  black  head,  towering  over 
both  Paddy  Leary  and  Daniel,  who  standing  at  either  side  of  the  colossus,  formed 
another  group ;  while  some  three  or  four  beings,  indescribable  as  to  shape  and 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  85 

features,  because  they  were  covered  with  dirt,  and  encompassed  in  an  atmo- 
sphere of  smoke  and  steam,  filled  up  the  back-ground. 

"  If  ye  came  wid  a  letther,  where  is  it  ?"  inquired  one  of  the  party. 

Lilly  drew  it  from  her  bosom,  and  presented  it  to  the  querist.  He  turned  it 
over  and  over,  and  then,  observing  quietly — "  The  smoke  blinds  me  so,  I  can't 
read," — handed  it  to  Daniel  McCleary. 

"  Well,  that 's  good  enough,  too,"  said  Peggy,  "  I  niver  hard  tell  yet  of  man 
or  woman  who  could  read  widout  knowing  B  from  a  bull's  fut." 

"  It 's  right  enough  after  all,"  observed  Daniel,  "  for  I  know  this  is  for  the 
boy  I  brought  the  letther  from ;  not  from  him  straight,  only  from  one  that  knows 
him  :  there  's  something  inside  it  ?" 

The  idea  that  McCleary  might  extract  the  money  crossed  Lilly's  mind,  but 
only  for  a  moment,  and  she  firmly  replied,  "  Yes,  three  pounds." 

"  And  I  'in  the  one  that  '11  put  it  safe  into  Taghmon,  my  jewel,  afore  twelve 
this  blissid  day,"  exclaimed  Peggy,  taking  possession  of  the  letter. 

"  Well,  ye  didn't  go  to  come  here  as  a  spy,  Miss  Lilly,  and  I  ax  yer  pardon 
for  suspicting  ye ;  but  upon  my  troth  it 's  dangerous,  now  ye  know  our  sacret, 
to  let  ye  go ;  who  '11  go  bail  for  ye  ?" 

"  I  will,"  said  Peggy. 

"  Your  bail  won't  do,  ye  cross  divil,"  replied  Paddy  Leary. 

"  Mine  will,  then,"  said  a  stout,  middle-sized  man,  coming  from  amid  the  dis- 
tant group ;  "  I  've  been  watching  ye  all  this  tin  minutes,  ye  cowardly  set — and 
it 's  no  joke  to  be  frightening  the  Bannow  Lilly  after  that  fashion,  ye  bag  o'  wea- 
sels !  My  colleen,  never  mind ;  ay,  when  '  rattling  Jimmy'  goes  bail,  who  grum- 
bles 1"  Certainly  they  all  appeared  quite  satisfied.  "  Sure,"  he  continued,  "  only 
you  've  no  gumtion,  ye  'd  know  that  the  kind  heart  is  niver  mane ;  why,  look  at 
her,  d'  ye  think  sich  as  she  'ud  condescind  to  inform  on  yer  potteen  ?  Ah !  ye 
don't  know  her  as  I  do." 

"  I  never  saw  ye  before,"  exclaimed  Lilly. 

"  What,  not  the  lame  bocher,  that  had  lost  the  use  of  a  leg,  and  was  blind  of 
an  eye,  all  from  lightning  on  the  salt  say  1"  and  he  imitated  the  voice  and  halt  of 
a  beggar  to  perfection :  "  't  was  a  could  night,  but  ye  made  me  very  comfortable, 
Miss  Lilly ;  and  don't  ye  remimber  the  madman  that  frightened  ye  down  the 
park,  where  ye  were  spreading  the  clothes  to  dry,  last  summer  ?  I  was  sorry 
to  frighten  ye,  dear ;  but  fait,  I  couldn't  help  it,  for  we  were  wanting  to  get  a 
little  something,  that  same  little  sthill,  past  the  park,  and  couldn't,  for  you ;  so  I 
wint  mad,  and  frightened  ye ;  yet — God  bless  ye  ! — ye  thought  I  looked  hungry, 
and  so  ye  brought  out  sich  a  dale  o'  food,  and  laid  it  a'side  the  hedge ;  but  come 
along,  the  white  rose  can't  blow  'mong  the  coorse  weeds." 

"  Jim — Jim,  ax  her  to  promise  on  the  book,"  said  Paddy. 

"  Ax — not  I :  sure  the  honour 's  in  her  heart's  blood."  And  so  saying,  "  rat- 
tling Jimmy,"  the  smuggler  and  the  peep-o'-day-boy,  lifted  Lilly  kindly  and  re- 
spectfully out  of  Daniel  McCleary's  black  den. 

"  And  now,"  said  Peggy,  "  I  '11  finish  my  prayers." 


86  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

A  fortnight  had  nearly  elapsed,  and  no  letter  arrived  from  Edward.  Lilly 
most  truly  wished  to  leave  the  cottage,  and  urged  every  reason  she  could  think 
of  to  be  permitted  so  to  do.  "  Miss  Herriott  was  going  for  the  winter  to  Dub- 
lin,  and  wanted  a  beltermost  lady's  rnaid,  and  a  little  time  there  would  do  her 
the  world  and  all  o'  good ;"  or,  "  she  had  a  bad  cough,  and  it  might  go  away 
if  she  went  more  up  the  country;"  but  the  entreaties  and  tears  of  her  aunt,  to 
whose  very  existence  she  seemed  as  necessary  as  the  air  she  breathed,  silenced 
her  request;  and  she  resolved  to  meet  her  relatives,  however  painful  the  meet- 
ing might  be.  "  My  aunt  will  get  used  to  Lucy  after  a  bit,"  thought  she,  "  then 
I  can  go ;  and,  any  way,  he  doesn't  know  I  ever  loved  him,  and  sure  it 's  no  sin, 
in  the  sight  o'  God,  to  love  him  as  I  have  loved."  And  Lilly  was  right ;  there 
was  no  impurity  in  her  affection.  It  was  the  feeling  that  seeks  the  good  of  its 
object,  without  any  reference  to  self.  She  did  not  regret  that  Edward  was  happy 
with  another ;  nor  had  she,  towards  his  wife,  one  jealous  or  unkind  thought. 
"  And  sure  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  him  happy."  This  was  her  last  idea,  as  she 
rested  her  head  on  her  humble  pillow ;  and  yet  the  morning  found  it  wet  with 
tears ;  and  then  she  knelt,  and  prayed  to  God  to  bless  her  aunt,  and  Edward,  and 
his  wife,  and  to  direct  her  in  all  her  paths. 

"  There 's  one  wants  to  spake  a  word  to  ye,  Miss  Lilly,  dear,  jist  down  yon- 
der," said  Peggy  the  Fisher,  as  Lilly  entered  the  garden,  after  breakfast,  one 
morning. 

"  Who  is  it,  Peggy  ?" 

"  Well,  thin,  it 's  jist  Harry  Connor,  lie 's  had  a  letther  from  Ned,  and  he  wants 
to  see  ye  on  the  strength  of  it."  Peggy  passed  on  her  way,  and  Lilly  proceeded 
to  the  spot  the  Fisher  had  pointed  out.  Harry  Connor  was  there. 

"  I  got  word  from  your  cousin,  Lilly,"  said  Harry,  "  that  him  and  his  wife 
are  at  Bally  hack,  and  will  be  here  to-morrow;  and  they'd  have  come  before, 
but  Lucy  (I  think  he  calls  her)  has  been  very  ill  from  the  sea-sickness ;  and  he 
begged  me  to  tell  ye  so.  Dear  Lilly,  I  was  glad  of  the  opportunity ;  for  there  's 
no  getting  a  sight  o'  ye ;  you  're  always  at  home,  and  even  on  Sundays  yer  aunt 
goes  on  the  car  to  chapel,  so  one  can't  spake  to  ye.  Oh,  Lilly !  Lilly !  you  were 
not  always  so  distant — don't  you  remember  when  I  used  to  sit  of  an  evening  in 
that  garden,  between  you  and  Edward,  reading,  and  you  used  to  call  me  your 
master,  and  say  the  time  passed  so  happily  ?"  Tears  gathered  in  Lilly's  eyes, 
as  she  turned  away  her  face  ;  for  she,  too,  remembered  those  evenings.  "  Lilly," 
continued  the  young  man,  "  have  you  heard  anything  against  me?  Your  aunt 
always  showed  me  the  could  shoulder;  I  don't  blame  her  for  that  in  past  times; 
but  now  she  would  not,  if  you  wished.  Oh,  do  not  say  you  cannot  love  me, 
Lilly !  You  have  always  shunned  me  when  I  wanted  to  spake  about  it ;  but  tell 
me  now,  Lilly  O'Brien !  I  will  wait ;  I  will  do  anything  you  wish — anything — 
only  say,  Lilly,  that  you  do  not  hate  me." 

"  No,  Harry,  I  do  not,  indeed ;"  and  she  met  his  eye  with  steady  firmness. 

"  Only  one  word  more,  and  then,"  he  continued,  holding  her  struggling  hand, 
"  you  may  go.  I  will  wait  any  time  you  please,  only  say  that  it  shan't  be  in 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  87 

vain — that  you  will  be  my  wife,  and  make  one  whose  heart  almost  bursts  at  the 
thought  of  losing  you — happy !" 

"  Harry,  I  cannot  desave  ye,"  she  replied,  "  nor  would  not,  if  I  could.  I 
know  I  've  shunned  ye ;  because  I  hoped  that  you  would  see  why — to  save  us 
both  all  this  heart-pain.  I  have  always  had  rason  to  respect  you  —  and  I  do ; 
but  love  ye  I  never  can ;  and  I  '11  never  marry  the  man  I  cannot  love." 

"  Only  one  word,"  said  Harry,  earnestly  —  "  sure  you  '11  hear  me  —  you  say 
you  've  a  regard  for  me.  Lilly,  you  go  nowhere ;  you  see  no  one.  I  do  not 
speak  of  my  being  well  to  do  in  the  world.  But  if  ye  were  to  let  me  near  ye, 
to  be  with  ye  as  I  once  was,  in  bygone  days,  the  love  might  come.  Oh,  let  me 
only  try !" 

"  No,  Harry,  no,  it  would  be  useless ;  my  heart  here  tells  me  so.  You  will 
find  many  fitter  for  ye,  who  can  love  ye  as  ye  deserve.  May  the  Almighty  bless 
and  watch  over  ye,  Harry !  And  farewell."  The  young  man  still  grasped  her 
hand ;  .and,  as  he  gazed  on  her  beautiful  face,  he  felt  that,  if  it  were  turned  from 
him  for  ever,  his  sun  of  happiness  was  indeed  set. 

"  Lilly,  before  ye  go,  hear  my  last  resolve.  If  ye  really  cast  me  off,  I,  who 
love  ye  more  than  life — I,  who,  to  see  even  the  glimmer  of  the  candle  carried 
by  this  hand,  have  watched  in  rain  and  tempest  under  yon  old  tree — I  will  leave 
my  father's  home ;  and,  for  your  sake,  Lilly,  I  will  take  priest's  vows,  and  for- 
sake the  world.  Think  well,  Lilly  O'Brien,  if,  from  mere  whim  or  maiden  mo- 
desty, you  would  drive  me  to  that." 

"  Harry,  God  forbid  that  you  should  ever  do  so  !  Ye  would  not  be  fit  to  sarve 
on  the  altar,  if  for  anything  like  that  ye  went  there.  No,  Harry,  my  heart  must 
go  with  my  hand.  They  're  all  I  have  to  give,  but  they  must  go  together :  even 
you  would  despise,  ay,  hate  that  hand,  if  ye  found,  for  lucre,  it  gave  itself,  when 
the  betther  part  was  wanting." 

"  Lilly,  may-be  ye  love  some  one  else  ?  Oh  !  may-be  I  'm  proud ;  but  surely 
there  's  not  a  boy  all  round  the  country  could  win  your  heart." 

"  I  do  not  love  any  one  for  marriage.  So,  onct  more,  God  bless  ye,  Harry ! 
— may  ye  be  happy — happier,"  she  muttered  to  herself,  "  happier  than  I  shall 
ever  be !" 

Harry  stood,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  spot  where  Lilly  had  disappeared. 
His  senses  were  bewildered ;  and  it  was  not  until  a  smart  slap  on  the  shoulder, 
and  the  voice  of  the  everlasting  Peggy,  who  appeared  (one  would  almost  be- 
lieve, like  Sir  Boyle  Roche's  bird,  in  two  places  at  the  same  time)  at  his  elbow, 
with  her  broad  platter  face,  shaded  by  the  fish  basket — that  he  became  fully  sen- 
sible of  the  reality  of  his  interview. 

"  Sure  I  tould  ye  ye  'd  get  no  good  of  the  colleen ;  and  if  ye  'd  ha'  mintioned 
the  matther  to  me  afore,  I  'd  ha'  tould  ye  the  same  thing,  and  may-be  the  rason 
too." 

"  I  know,"  said  Harry,  musingly,  "  she  does  not  love  any  one  else." 

"  Och,  ye  do,  do  ye  ? — humph,  agra !" 


"  What  do  you  mean,  woman  ?  Sure  she  told  me  she  did  not ;  and  her  lips 
never  lied,  nor  never  will." 

«  Asy ! — the  string  o'  my  bades  broke,  and  I  was  forced  to  stop  to  mend  it  jist 
behind  that  big  bush  o'  furze.  A  poor  cratur  like  me  can't  afford  to  be  buying 
bades  every  day.  So,  my  dear  —  all  accident  (for  I  scorn  a  listener),  I  hard 
what  she  said — '  she  loved  no  one  for  marriage.''  True  for  her ;  they  talk  a  grate 
dale  of  her  sinse ;  but  it 's  poor  sinse  to  go  look  for  the  snow  that  fell  last  win- 
ter. I  '11  tell  ye  what,  as  a  dead  sacret : — she  loved  the  ground  that  her  cousin 
walked  on,  more  than  all  the  gould  that  ever  was  in,  or  ever  came  out  o'  Indy. 
And  she  loves  him  still ;  ay,  ye  needn't  look  so  strange ;  she  loves  him,  but  no- 
thin'  improper — I  know  that  girl's  heart  as  well  as  if  I  was  inside  of  her — 't  is 
of  the  sort  that  doesn't  stain,  or  spot ;  and  now  you  '11  see,  her  delight  '11  be  to 
tache  his  wife  all  the  ould  mistress's  quare  ways.  And  thin,  whin  she  '11  have 
made  pace  entirely  among  'em,  she  '11  stale  off,  like  the  mist  up  the  mountain ; 
and  work  (and  well  she  knows  how)  for  his  sake  that  doesn't  know  she  loves 
him.  It 's  mighty  fine  to  be  so  romantical  all  for  pure  love.  God  help  us,  poor 
women,  we  're  all  tinder  !  It  was  the  way  wid  me,  whin  my  bachelor  died — 
rest  his  sowl ! — and  that 's  the  rason  I  'm  a  poor  lone  body  now.  Sure  I  sould 
the  pig  my  mother  left  me,  to  pay  the  clargy,  to  get  his  sowl  out  o'  purgatory ; 
and  wasn't  it  well  for  him  to  have  it  to  depind  on  ?" 

Harry,  heedless  of  Peggy's  pathetic  application  of  the  apron  to  her  eyes,  turn- 
ed towards  his  own  home,  "  revolving  sweet  and  bitter  thoughts."  There  is  a 
delight  imparted  to  every  unsophisticated  heart,  by  the  contemplation  of  a  noble 
or  a  virtuous  action,  that  nothing  else  can  give ;  and  Harry's  generous  mind  at 
once  acknowledged  Lilly's  virtues :  loving  at  first  without  knowing  it ;  feeling 
it  unrequited ;  and  yet  resolved  to  benefit  its  object  to  the  sacrifice  of  every  per- 
sonal convenience  and  prospect  in  life. 

The  next  day  Edward  and  his  bride  arrived  at  the  cottage.  Mrs.  Cassidy,  in 
compliance  with  her  oath,  received  them  kindly.  The  mother's  heart  yearned 
towards  her  son ;  but  poor  Lucy  saw  the  old  woman  entertained  a  strong  pre- 
judice against  her. 

The  "  kindly  welcome,"  that  murmured  from  Lilly's  lips,  sounded  sweetly  on 
the  young  stranger's  ears ;  and,  as  fatigue  compelled  her  to  go  to  bed  almost 
immediately,  Lilly's  gentle  attentions  were  very  delightful.  The  kind  girl  had 
displayed  much  taste  and  care  in  arranging  their  small  sleeping  room.  Every 
article  she  could  spare  from  her  own  chamber  was  added  to  its  furniture.  And 
when  Lucy  saw  everything  so  clean  and  comfortable,  she  expressed  both  sur- 
prise and  pleasure. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  love  Lucy,  when  you  looked  at  her ;  but  it  was  some- 
what doubtful  if  that  sentiment  would  continue  when  you  knew  her.  Her  eyes 
were  black,  quick,  and  quite  as  likely  to  sparkle  with  anger  as  with  pleasure. 
She  was  very  petite,  lively,  thoughtless,  and  possessed  precisely  those  acquire- 
ments that  were  useless  in  an  Irish  cottage.  The  daughter  of  a  grocer  in  Ply- 
mouth, she  had  seen,  fallen  in  love,  run  away  with,  and  married  Edward  in  the 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  89 

short  space  of  three  weeks;  and  had  not  yet  numbered  sixteen  yeais.  Her 
youth  pleaded  strongly  in  her  favour :  but  her  extreme  giddiness  kept  Lilly,  the 
sweet,  the  patient  Lilly,  perpetually  on  the  watch,  lest  she  might  do  something 
to  annoy  her  mother-in-law.  It  is  true  she  quilled  Mrs.  Cassidy's  caps  in  so  new 
and  bewitching  a  style  that  everybody  said  Lucy  made  the  good  lady  look  ten 
years  younger.  She  washed  her  old  mode  cloak  in  some  stuff,  of  which  whiskey 
and  beer  were  the  principal  ingredients,  and  made  it  appear,  to  the  astonishment 
of  the  whole  parish,  "  bran  new."  Then  she  trimmed  bonnets — one  yard  and  a 
half  of  riband,  managed  by  her,  went  as  far  as  three  and  a  quarter  ('t  is  an  abso- 
lute fact)  with  anybody  else.  She  could  work  natural  flowers  upon  gauze,  and 
embroider  the  corners  of  pocket  handkerchiefs.  She  could  even  get  up  fine 
linen :  but  she  could  neither  spin  flax  or  wool,  card,  or  milk,  or  churn,  or  cram 
fowl,  or  make  butter,  or  a  shirt  of  any  description :  the  worst  of  all  was,  she  said, 
unfortunately,  that  she  was  certain  no  Christian  body  could  eat  bread  made  from 
the  flour  that  was  pounded  out  by  those  dirty  stones ;  thus  bringing  Mrs.  Cassidy's 
invaluable  quern  into  contempt.  Then  it  was  quite  impossible  to  keep  her  quiet ; 
everything  excited  her  risibility.  One  day,  in  particular,  when  the  turkey-cock, 
affronted  at  Mrs.  Cassidy's  scarlet  petticoat,  which  outvied  his  own  red  neck, 
picked  unmercifully  at  her  legs,  Lucy  only  laughed,  and  never  went  to  the  rescue, 
which  induced  the  old  lady  to  say,  that  "  Ned  pretended  to  bring  home  a  wife, 
but  had  only  brought  home  a  doll." 

Lilly  might  be  well  called  her  guardian  angel ;  when,  like  a  school  girl,  she 
scampered  over  the  fields,  gathering  flowers,  or  hunting  every  cock,  hen,  and 
chicken,  over  the  potato  ridges,  Lilly  followed  to  prevent  her  over-fatiguing 
herself,  and  to  assist  her  home ;  then  she  would  instruct  her  how  to  please  her 
mother-in-law  ;  and,  if  Mrs.  Cassidy  complained,  Lilly  had  always  some  remark 
to  soften  down  what  was  said.  Her  general  apology  was — "  She's  so  young, 
but  she  '11  soon  be  a  mother,  and  thin  she  '11  get  sense." 

"  I  wonder  Ned  did  not  fall  in  love  with  you,  Lilly,"  said  Lucy,  one  day ; 
"  I  'm  sure  you  'd  have  made  a  better  wife  for  him  than  ever  I  shall !"  How 
poor  Lilly  blushed,  and  then  turned  pale ;  but  Lucy  heeded  it  not.  "  How 
industrious  Ned  grows ! — well,  they  would  not  believe,  in  Plymouth,  that  he  'd 
ever  settle  down  into  a  farmer,  but  I  'm  sure  he  works  in  the  fields  from  morn- 
ing till  night." 

"  People  who  are  not  rich  must  work,  Lucy." 

"  Now,  Lilly,  that 's  a  hit  at  me,  who  let  you  do  everything ;  but  do  not  look 
so  angry  with  me,  dearest  Lilly ;  I  beg  pardon,  you  never  hit  at  anybody.  Oh  ! 
you  are  not  like  an  Irishwoman !" 

"  Oh,  Lucy,  dear ! — don't  be  after  talkmg  that  way  o'  the  country,  afore  my 
aunt,  for  it  hurts  her ;  and  ye  must  remimber  how  much  she  's  thought  of  in 
the  parish." 

"  Well,  there.  I'll  be  good  as  gold — there;"  and  she  sat  down  to  work  at  some 
caps  for  a  little  stranger  that  was  expected  soon. 

Edward  was  very  affectionate  to  his  young  wife,  although  her  heedlessness 
12 


90  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

often  annoyed  him  ;  but  when  he  gazed  on  her  fairy-like  beauty,  he  forgave  it. 
The  Protestant  church  was  too  far  for  her  to  walk  ;  she  would  not  go  to  mass, 
and  her  husband  loved  her  too  well  to  permit  her  to  be  teased  on  the  subject. 
Her  mother-in-law,  and  even  Lilly,  were  grieved  at  this,  and  lamented  that 
she  thought  so  little  about  serious  things ;  however,  Mrs.  Cassidy  always  re- 
conciled it  to  herself,  by  saying,  "  Niver  mind,  she  '11  be  all  the  asier  brought 
round  to  the  right  way,  by-and-by."  But,  of  all  the  amusements  in  which  the 
thoughtless  creature  delighted,  nothing  pleased  her  so  much  as  boating ;  if  she 
could  even  get  into  a  boat  by  herself,  she  would  paddle  it  round  the  creeks,  and 
into  the  bays,  which  in  some  places  are  overhung  by  scowling  rocks,  where  the 
sea-birds  nestle  in  safety. 

"  The  potatoes  are  almost  done,  by  their  bubbling,  I  suppose,  Lilly,"  said 
she,  one  day,  "  so  I  '11  go  and  meet  Ned  as  he  comes  up  from  the  plough,  and 
we  shall  be  just  in  time  for  dinner;"  and  away  she  tripped,  singing  as  blithely 
as  a  lark. 

"She  has  a  light  heart,"  thought  Lilly;  "and  why  not? — mine  is  not  as 
heavy  as  it  used  to  be :  well,  thank  God,  it  does  make  people  happy  to  do  their 
duty;"  and  she  assisted  the  little  serving -girl  in  arranging  all  things  in  their 
kitchen — a  task  soon  performed;  the  potatoes,  laughing  and  smoking,  were 
poured  out  on  a  clean,  home-bleached  cloth,  and  the  white  noggins  frothed  with 
fresh  buttermilk  of  Lilly's  own  churning.  Something  prepared  with  extra 
care,  for  the  delicate  Englishwoman,  was  covered  between  two  delf  plates  at 
the  fire,  and  Mrs.  Cassidy  stood  watching  at  the  door,  her  hand  lifted  to  her 
eyes,  to  shade  them  from  the  noon-day  sun,  while  Lilly  mixed  some  gooseberry 
wine  with  water  and  sugar  for  Lucy. 

"  Lilly,  didn't  ye  say  that  Lucy  went  to  meet  Ned  ?" 

"  Yes,  aunt." 

*'  Well,  here 's  Ned  at  the  gate  almost,  and  no  sign  o*  Lucy." 

•«  That 's  mighty  strange,"  replied  Lilly,  advancing ;  "  Ned,  where  's  Lucy  ?" 

"  At  her  dinner,  I  suppose." 

"  Now,  don't  be  so  foolish,  I  'm  sure  she  met  ye." 

"  She  did  not,  indeed,  and  I  was  longing  to  see  her." 

"  It  is  some  of  her  childish  tricks,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy. 

"  Her  dinner  '11  be  stone  could,  though,"  said  Lilly,  looking  out ;  "  so  I  '11  jist 
go  see  if  I  can  meet  her,  and  sit  ye  all  down,  or  the  pratees  '11  not  be  fit  to 
ate ;"  and  she  issued  forth  without  further  parley. 

Ned  did  not  sit  down,  although  his  mother  urged  him.  "  Her  dinner  has 
nothin'  to  do  with  yours,  Ned ;  sure  Lilly  has  something  nice  under  the  plate 
for  her.  No  sign  of  her  yet,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause ;  "  sure  she  wouldn't 
be  so  foolish  as  to  go  to  Tim  Lavery's  boat,  for  a  bit  of  a  spree ;  I  caught  her 
in  it  reading  yesterday,  but  it  was  anchored  safe,  sure  enough." 

Ned  made  no  reply,  but  followed  the  footsteps  of  his  cousin ;  the  field  he 
had  been  ploughing  was  very  near  the  beach ;  he  hastily  gained  it,  and  his 
horror  and  dismay  can  be  better  conceived  than  expressed,  when,  gaining  the 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  91 

cliff,  the  first  object  he  beheld  was  Lilly,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  water, 
dragging  to  shore  the  apparently  lifeless  body  of  his  wife.  When  Lilly  left  the 
cottage,  she  first  looked  behind  the  large  furze  and  hawthorn  bushes  near  the 
field,  and  then  the  boat  occurred  to  her ;  she  sped  to  the  sea,  and  saw  it  in 
shallow  water,  but  upset,  with  Lucy  clinging  to  the  stern,  faint  and  exhausted. 
To  plunge  into  the  water  and  bring  her  to  land,  was  the  work  but  of  a  moment, 
and  done  before  Edward  could  descend  the  cliffs. 

The  thoughtless  creature  was  soon  conveyed  home.  Her  nerves  were  quite 
shattered ;  she  clung  closely  to  Lilly's  bosom,  like  a  frightened  child,  and  did 
not  even  return  her  husband's  caresses.  She  was  hardly  laid  on  her  bed,  when 
shrieks  of  agony  succeeded  the  half-murmured  words  and  sobbings  of  terror; 
and,  after  long  and  painful  suffering,  the  being,  who,  not  many  hours  before, 
had  bounded  in  the  full  light  and  life  of  early  youth,  gave  premature  birth  to  a 
living  child,  and  then  yielded  up  her  own  existence.  It  was  very  sorrowful  to 
mark  the  merry  eyes  closed  for  ever  beneath  their  alabaster  lids,  and  the  long 
black  lashes  resting  on  her  colourless  cheeks. 

Then  came  a  long  and  loud  debate  between  the  Protestant  and  Catholic 
priests,  as  to  who  was  to  perform  the  last  rites ;  as  if  the  spirit's  happiness  de- 
pended on  man's  words  repeated  over  inanimate  clay.  The  widower  roused 
himself  from  the  lethargy  that  succeeds  the  first  rush  of  impetuous  grief,  and 
said  calmly,  but  firmly — "  Plase  your  reverences,  I  'm  a  Catholic,  and  ever  was 
and  will  be ;  but  she  that 's  gone  from  me  was  born  a  Protestant — married  a 
Protestant — and,  as  she  died  one,  so  shall  she  be  buried,  and  that 's  enough  ; 
and  what 's  more,  I  promised  her,  when  I  didn't  think  that  death  and  desolation 
would  come  at  this  time,  that  if  the  child  was  a  girl  it  should  go  wid  her, 
if  a  boy,  wid  me.  Now.  gentlemen,  I'm  not  a  larned  man,  but  my  mind 
is,  that  a  promise,  to  the  dead  or  the  living,  is  holy  and  firm  in  its  natur' ; 
and  so,  as  I  promised,  it  shall  be.  I  couldn't  look  upon  the  babby's  face 
for  a  king's  ransom,  nor  do  I  know  whether  it  be  boy  or  girl ;  mother,  say 
what  is  it  ?" 

"  A  girl,"  replied  Mrs.  Cassidy. 

"  Well,  may-be  more  betther ;  may-be  you  'd  just  baptize  it,  Mr.  Barlow, 
and  Lilly  and  my  mother  '11  stand  for  it ;  as  my  notion  is  it  can't  live — and  why 
should  it?" 

But  the  little  Lucy  did  live — thanks  to  Lilly's  fostering  care ;  and  so  fragile 
a  thing  it  was,  that  even  a  rough  kis.s  might  have  killed  it.  A  nurse  was  im- 
mediately procured,  and  Lilly  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  all  Mrs.  Cassidy's 
solicitude  directed  towards  the  infant ;  nay,  she  almost  forgot  the  quern,  and 
the  only  danger  was,  that  the  child  would  be  destroyed  by  kindness.  There 
was,  however,  to  Lilly's  delicate  mind,  something  most  improper  in  her 
remaining  in  the  same  house  with  her  cousin.  He  was  again  free ;  al- 
though she  hoped  that  he  did  not  suspect  her  love,  yet  he  knew  of  his 
mother's  old  plan ;  he  had  once,  in  anger,  reproached  her  as  being  accessary 
to  it ;  and  Lilly  decided  on  leaving  our  village.  Edward,  since  sorrow  had  laid 


92  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

her  hand  on  him,  was  an  altered  man,  and  Mrs.  Cassidy  was  enjoying  a  vigorous 
old  age :  so  she  could  leave  her,  assured  of  happiness.  It  was  a  bitter  trial  to 
forsake  her  little  godchild,  yet  she  felt  she  owed  a  duty  to  herself.  Mr.  Herriott's 
family  were  again  about  to  visit  DubHn,  and,  without  imparting  her  plan  to  any 
one,  she  offered  her  services  to  Miss  Herriott  They  were  joyfully  accepted ; 
not  without  many  expressions  of  wonder,  that  "  the  Bannow  Lilly,"  the  flower 
of  the  whole  country  side,  should  leave  a  spot  where  she  was  so  much  beloved. 
Lilly  pleaded  a  wish  for  improvement,  and  finally  arranged  to  set  off  with  Miss 
Herriott  in  three  days.  As  she  returned  she  heard  Peggy's  loud  voice,  singing 
her  old  favourite,  "  The  Colleen  Rue,"  just  as  she  got  to  her  favourite  stanza — 

"  I  ranged  through  Asia — likewise  Arabia, 

Through  Penselvanie,  a  seeking  for  you; 

Through  the  burning  region  of  the  siege  of  Paris," — 

when  she  espied  Lilly  in  her  decent  mourning  habit 

"  The  blessing  be  about  ye,  my  precious ! — and  may-be  ye  'd  tell  us  where 
ye  've  been.  Sorra  a  bit  o'  news  going  now  for  a  poor  body." 

"  I  've  been  up  to  Mrs.  Herriott's,  Peggy." 

"  Och !  they  're  going  to  Dublin,  all  the  way,  on  Tuesday.  Sure  that  '11  be 
the  black  journey  for  the  poor.  You  needn't  care,  Miss  Lilly :  sure  you  've  full 
and  plinty,  and  an  own  fireside." 

"I'm  going  as  own  maid  with  Miss  Herriott,  Peggy; — there's  a  small  taste 
of  news  for  yer  comfort,"  continued  Lilly,  smiling — "  and  more,  betokens,  you  've 
the  first  of  it,  for  I  've  not  tould  my  aunt  yet." 

"  You  going  ?  Och,  oh,  oh ! — don't  be  making  yer  fun  of  us  after  that  fashion ; 
we  know  betther  nor  that" 

"  It 's  quite  true,  for  all  ye  may  think,  and  so  God  be  wid  ye,  Peggy !  You 
and  poor  Coal  will  often  cross  my  mind  when  I  'm  alone  among  strangers." 

"  Arrah,  now,  stop ! — sure  ye  can't  be  in  arnist  Sure  there 's  not  a  living 
sowl  in  the  parish  but  says  you'll  be  married  to  Ned  now ;  and  at  St.  Pathrick's 
sure  I  hard  'em  talking  about  it ;  and  how  Harry  Connor 's  priested ;  sure  he 's 
Father  Harry  for  your  sake." 

"  Peggy,  I  take  shame  to  myself  for  harkening  to  your  palaver  for  a  moment ; 
dacent  talk  ye  have,  and  the  young  grass  not  green  on  her  grave  yet !  Once 
more  I  say,  God  be  wid  ye."  I  have  done  right,  thought  she,  but  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  make  my  dear  aunt  think  so. 

Poor  Mrs.  Cassidy  scolded  and  cried  with  might  and  main ;  and  Ned  remon- 
strated, and  even  said  that  he  took  it  very  unkind  of  her  to  leave  them,  and 
above  all,  the  little  thing  whose  life  she  had  saved.  But  Lilly  was  firm,  and 
departed  amid  the  reproaches  and  tears  of  her  aunt,  and  the  heartfelt  regret  of 
her  neighbours. 

How  very  irksome  were  her  employments ! — how  did  she  shrink  from  the  rude 
gaze  of  gentlemen  and  gentlemen's  gentlemen,  who,  astonished  at  her  full-blown 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  93 

beauty,  paid  homage  by  staring  her  out  of  countenance ;  and  how  often  did  she 
long  for  the  quiet  of  the  lowly  cottage  in  the  isolated  village  of  Bannow  !  At 
first  she  imagined  that  city  people  must  be  very  superior  to  country  ones.  But 
she  soon  grew  tired  of  the  pert  flippancy  and  foolish  airs  of  the  servants  whom 
she  met ;  and  by  Miss  Herriott's  permission,  retired,  when  unoccupied,  to  the 
solitude  of  her  kind  lady's  dressing-room.  She  received  letters  once  a  month, 
generally,  from  her  cousin.  The  two  first,  in  addition  to  the  necessary  informa- 
tion, anxiously  entreated  her  return,  but  latterly  (for  the  stay  of  the  family  was 
prolonged,  owing  to  Mrs.  Herriott's  illness)  the  subject  was  never  mentioned ; 
and  the  bitter  feeling,  that  there  no  longer  existed  any  one  to  love  her,  weighed 
heavily  on  her  heart.  Sixteen  months  had  elapsed  since  Lucy's  death ;  and 
Edward  ever  spoke  of  his  child  with  all  a  father's  fondness.  Lilly  longed  to  see 
it,  but  she  had  resolved  on  never  again  living  with  her  aunt — and  she  remained 
firm  to  her  resolution. 

She  had  been  dressing  her  young  lady  one  morning,  when,  passing  down 
stairs,  the  footman  said — "  There 's  one  in  the  housekeeper's  room  that  wants 
ye."  She  hardly  entered  when  she  was  almost  suffocated  by  the  embraces  of 
Mrs.  Cassidy;  and  then  she  had  to  encounter  the  respectful  but  affectionate 
greetings  of  her  cousin.  Her  aunt  earnestly  looked  at  her,  would  not  sit  down, 
but  said — "  Now,  my  darlint  Lilly,  it  is  much  ye  ought  to  thank  me  for  this 
journey — in  my  ould  age  to  take  to  the  road  agin ;  but  ye  see  the  rason  is,  that 
Ned  is  tired  o'  being  a  bachelor,  and  he  's  going  to  change  his  condition,  and  jist 
wants  to  ax  your  advice  and  consint." 

"  Mine !" 

"  Now  mother  dear  don't  be  mumming,"  said  Ned :  "  Lilly  I  come  to  ax  ye 
to  accept  the  hand  of  one  who  is  unworthy  to  be  yer  husband,  but  yet  would 
die  to  make  you  happy.  Lilly,  don't  cast  me  off — for  my  mother's  sake — for 
my  own — for  this  one's  sake ;"  and  he  took  from  the  arms  of  our  old  friend, 
Peggy  the  Fisher,  a  smiling,  black-eyed  little  creature,  who  almost  instantly 
nestled  its  curly  pate  in  Lilly's  bosom.  "  Sure  ye  can  make  us  all  happy,  if  ye 
like  ;  and  we  '11  be  all  in  quiet  Bannow  agen.  Say,  Lilly  !  Oh,  don't  look  so 
could  on  me !" 

"  Will  ye  hould  your  whisht,  Ned !"  interrupted  Peggy ;  *'  If  ever  I  see  'd  any- 
body trated  in  that  mismannerly  fashion !  Can't  ye  see  wid  half  an  eye  that  the 
cratur  's  as  good  as  fainted,  ye  omathawn !  No  wonder,  and  ye  both  bellower- 
ing  thegither.  Ye  don't  know  how  to  make  a  dacent  proposhal ;  ye  've  fright- 
ened the  grawl  betwixt  ye — whisht,  honey,  whisht !  (to  the  child) — there  's  a 
woman ! — ay — come  to  your  own  Peggy,  that  hushowed  ye  oftin ;  and  will 
agin,  by  the  blessin'  o'  God." 

Lilly,  literally  unable  to  stand,  sank  into  the  housekeeper's  chair.  Edward 
knelt  at  her  side ;  and  his  mother,  holding  one  of  her  hands  to  her  heart, 
looked  earnestly  on  her  face,  while  Peggy,  "  hushowing"  the  child,  was  not  an 
uninterested  spectator. 

"  God  knows,"  said  the  young  woman,  after  a  little  time,  "  I  did  not  expect 


94  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

this.  Aunt,  when  I  had  no  father  to  protect  me — no  mother  to  feel  for  me — 
you  did  both ;  you  shared  with  me  what  you  had ;  and,  oh !  what  was  more 
than  all — while  I  ate  o'  yer  bread,  and  drank  o'  yer  cup,  ye  never  made  me 
feel  that  it  was  not  my  father's  roof  that  shelthered  me.  Ned,  we  grew  to- 
gether, and  you  were  to  me  as  a  born  brother.  But  ye  wronged  me,  Ned,  that 
night ;  the  first  time  (and  God,  that  hears  me,  knows  it,)  the  first  time  I  ever 
guessed  my  aunt  wished  me  to  be  nearer  to  her  than  her  brother's  child :  that 
night,  when,  to  prevint  yer  laving  home,  I  proposed  to  quit  for  ever  my  only 
frind ;  when  ?  did  her  bidding,  an'  followed  ye  through  the  moonlight,  to  bring 
ye  back  to  yer  poor  ould  mother,  ye  cast  a  black  word  in  my  face,  and  ye  said 
that  I — I,  Lilly  O'Brien — was  leagued  agin  ye — and  that  I  followed  ye  to  get 
a  husband."  She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  faintly  continued,  "  I 
have  never  forgotten  it ;  I  have  prayed  to  do  so.  No  one  ever  knew  it,  but 
Peggy;  she  overheard  it  Oh!  it  weighed  here,  at  the  very  bottom  of  my 
heart,  and  when  I  slept  it  was  wid  me;  it — " 

"Oh,  Lilly,  how  can  ye  take  on  so! — sure  it  was  the  bad  temper  that  did 
it,  and  I  didn't  mane  it  And  sure  you  've  proved  since  that  it 's  little  truth 
was  in  it ;  sure  ye  've  been  more  like  an  angel  than  anything  else ;  and  sure 
when  I  ax  yer  pardon — " 

"Stop  Ned,  ye  do  now;  but  may-be,  by  an'  by,  ye  might  say  the  same 
thing  agen ;  and  if  ye  did  it,  and  if  we  were  married,  I  could  never  look  up 
after !" 

"Why,  Lilly,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy,  "ye 're  making  him  out  a  fair  black 
villain,  after  all  yer  goodness,  to  think  he'd  do  the  likes  o'  that — after  yer 
coming  over  me,  to  take  an  oath  to  resave  him  and  his,  as  my  oicn,  whin  a  word 
was  only  wanting  to  make  me  ban  him  for  iver." 

"And  after  her  flying  at  me  like  a  mad  cat,"  echoed  Peggy,  "becase.I 
gave  her  a  bit  of  advice  (for  I  was  fairly  bothered)  to  take  care  of  a  little  pro- 
perty for  herself." 

"  Ay,  an^l  all  her  attintion  to  the  stranger,"  resumed  Mrs.  Cassidy. 

"  And  her  sinding  him  her  own  three  pounds  to  bring  him  home,"  said 
Peggy. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  inquired  Lilly. 

"Is  it  how  I  know  it?  Why,  thin,  I'll  jist  tell  ye.  I  knew  yer  aunt 
hadn't  a  tester  in  the  house,  becase  she  'd  given  me  every  pinny  to  exchange 
for  gould,  that  she  might  pay  her  rint  in  it — not  in  dirty  paper — to  plase  the 
landlord." 

"Yer  good  deeds  are  all  known,  Lilly.  Oh,  let  me  say  my  Lilly;  sure 
ye '11  forgive  yer  cousin.  How  can  I  admire  ye  as  I  ought? — don't  shake  yer 
head,  Lilly  dear — but — " 

The  opening  of  the  door  prevented  the  conclusion  of  Edward's  speech ;  and 
Miss  Herriott  entered,  her  face  radiant  with  satisfaction.  "  So,  Lilly,  I  am  to 
lose  you ;  nay,  do  not  talk  girl,  I  know  you  love  him ;  I  knew  it  all  along ; 
Peggy  told  me  all  about  it,  at  the  end  of  the  shrubbery,  the  night  before  we  left 


95 

Bannow;  and  my  dressmaker  has  made  the  wedding-dress,  because  Edward 
Cassidy  wrote  to  me,  and  asked  my  opinion  and  consent ;  which  was  fitting ; 
arid  I  assured  him  you  had  not  been  flirting  with  any  one,  and  invited  him  and 
my  old  friend  up  to  Dublin ;  as  to  you  Peggy,  I  never  expected  you,  but  you 
are  not  less  welcome." 

"  Why,  I  thank  ye,  Miss,  my  lady ;  I  jist  came  to  see  how  ye  all  war,  and 
to  mind  the  child,  and  to  look  at  the  fine  beautiful  city,  and  the  college,  that 
bates  the  world  for  laming,  as  I  have  hard,  and  the  ancient  ould  Parliament- 
house  ;  and  thin  go  back,  and  give  rest  to  my  bones  among  my  own  people ; 
but  I  hope  ye  '11  persuade  Miss  Lilly,  my  lady,  for  her  own  good ;  sure  they 
love  each  other — and  what  more's  wanting  for  happiness?" 

"  Ay,  do.  Miss,  she  '11  do  yer  bidding,  may-be ;  she's  forgotten  mine ;"  and 
tears  rolled  down  the  wrinkled  cheeks  of  Mrs.  Cassidy. 

"  Not  so,"  replied  Miss  Herriott ;  and  taking  Lilly's  hand  she  placed  it  in 
Edward's ;  "  and  now,"  continued  the  amiable  girl,  "  kneel  for  the  blessing 
that  ascends  to  the  throne  of  the  Almighty,  like  a  sweet-smelling  savour — the 
blessing  of  an  honest  parent."  They  dropped  on  their  knees,  and  Mrs.  Cassidy 
pressed  them  to  her  satisfied  heart. 

"  And  sure  that 's  as  good  as  a  play,"  blubbered  Peggy. 

"Well  Peggy,  you  shall  see  a  play  if  you  please,  to-morrow  evening;  but 
first  I  invite  you  to  Lilly's  wedding,  which  will  take  place  to-morrow  at  four 
o'clock,  in  our  great  drawing-room,  agreeably  to  the  forms  of  the  Catholic 
church,  by  a  Catholic  priest.  Nay,  Lilly,  it  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  com- 
mand you ;  so  I  bid  you  all  farewell  for  the  present."  And  the  good,  and  kind, 
and  generous  young  lady  left  them  to  their  "  own  company ;"  which,  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  for  me  to  say,  was  not  very  doleful  or  wretched  ;  for  although 
the  heart  of  one  of  the  party  was  too  full  for  words,  ample  amends  was  made 
for  her  silence  by  the  ever  talkative  Peggy. 

At  three  quarters  of  an  hour  past  three  (I  love  to  be  exact  in  these 
matters),  Miss  Herriott  inspected  her  company  in  the  back  drawing-room. 
The  arrangements  for  the  ceremony  highly  amused  her ;  first,  Mrs.  Cassidy, 
in  an  open  rose-coloured  poplin  dress,  as  stiff  as  buckram,  with  tight  sleeves 
reaching  to  the  elbows,  where  they  were  met  by  white  mittens,  that  had  been 
the  gift  of  Miss  Herriott's  grandmother,  and  which  the  old  lady  prized  so 
highly  that  they  had  only  twice  seen  the  light  in  twenty  years ;  a  blue  satin 
quilted  petticoat,  ditto,  ditto ;  a  white  muslin  apron,  flounced  all  round ; 
high-heeled  shoes,  with  massy  silver  buckles;  a  clear  kerchief,  pinned  in  the 
fashion  that  used  to  be  called  "  pigeon's  craw,"  and  a  high-cauled  cap,  trimmed 
with  rich  lace,  completed  her  costume.  Peggy  sported  a  large  flowered  chintz, 
whereon  pink  parrots,  yellow  goldfinches,  and  bunches  of  roses  bigger  than 
either  goldfinch  or  parrot,  clustered  together  in  open  defiance  of  nature  and 
the  arts ;  this  was  made  after  Mrs.  Cassidy's  pattern,  and  displayed  to  advan- 
tage a  pea-green  English  stuff  petticoat,  quilted  in  diamonds.  There  \vas 
little  variation  from  Mrs.  Cassidy's  fashion  in  the  other  et  ceteras,  except  that 


96  LILLY  O'BRIEN. 

Peggy  wore  a  flaming  yellow  silk  shawl,  with  a  blue  border;  that,  to  use  her 
own  expression,  "  matched  everything." 

Lilly  looked  beautiful  —  most  beautiful.  Miss  Herriott  dressed  her  as  she 
pleased ;  in  white — pure  white ;  would  not  permit  her  to  wear  a  cap,  but  let  her 
hair  curl  after  its  own  fashion,  only  confining  it  with  a  wreath  of  lilies  of  the 
valley. 

There  is  no  use  in  describing  Edward's  dress ;  all  bridegrooms,  I  believe,  wear 
blue  coats  with  yellow  buttons  and  white  waistcoats.  The  little  Lucy  had  a 
clean  white  frock,  and  a  lobster's  claw  to  keep  her  quiet. 

Oh !  what  a  happy  group  of  humble  people  were  assembled  in  that  gay  draw- 
ing-room !  Mrs.  Cassidy — the  desire  of  heart  gratified,  the  hope  of  years  real- 
ized, the  fervent  and  continual  prayer  answered  —  Mrs.  Cassidy  was,  beyond 
doubt,  the  happiest  of  them  all,  as  she  sat,  with  her  cheerful  and  grateful  face, 
contemplating  her  "  two  children." 

"  Ye  're  both  too  handsome  and  too  good  for  me,"  whispered  Ned,  as  he  con- 
ducted Lilly  to  the  great  drawing-room,  closely  followed  by  her  condescending 
bridemaid.  Lilly  courtesied  as  she  entered,  but  did  not  look  off  the  ground  un- 
til an  exclamation  of  surprise,  from  the  bridegroom,  roused  her  attention,  and 
she  saw — Harry  Connor ! — Father  Harry ! — ready  to  perform  the  marriage  cere- 
mony. 

"  It  is  even  your  old  friend,"  said  he,  advancing ;  "  Mr.  Herriott,  at  my  re- 
quest, consented  to  my  surprising  you.  Ned,  when  I  give  you  this  girl  as  your 
wife,  I  give  you  one  whom  no  earthly  feeling  could  tempt  from  the  path  of  strict 
honour.  She  told  me  once  that  her  hand  should  never  go  without  her  heart, 
and  your  being  together  proves  you  have  it ;  a  blessing  will  she  be  to  thee,  my 
early  friend."  A  single  tear  glistened  on  his  cheek  as  he  pronounced  the  words 
that  made  them  husband  and  wife : — it  was  a  tear  of  which  a  seraph  might  not 
have  been  ashamed. 

Four  years  have  passed  since  that  happy  marriage ;  and  can  you  not  tell  who 
— seeking  to  abstract  herself  from  household  cares  and  blessings,  only  that  she 
may  render  grateful  homage  to  her  Creator — sits,  after  evening  vespers,  with 
clasped  hands  and  downcast  eyes,  her  national  hood  shading,  but  not  obscuring 
the  beauty  of  her  pensive  face,  near  yonder  cottage,  that  looks  so  joyously  in 
the  setting  sun  which  sheds  such  glorious  light  over  the  ocean,  that  reflects  every 
passing  cloud  upon  its  calm,  clear  bosom?  See  her  again,  within  the  porch  of 
her  dwelling,  where  the  flowers  are  blossoming ;  and  where  she  has  other  blos- 
soms than  the  flowers  give.  She  is  approaching  the  bloom  of  womanhood ;  yet 
grace  is  in  all  her  movements.  Her  kerchief  is  carefully  pinned  across  her  bo- 
som, and  two  or  three  rich  auburn  tresses  that  obstinately  come  forth,  and  will 
not  be  confined  by  the  neat  cap  of  snowy  whiteness,  move  in  the  passing  breeze ; 
— that  dark-eyed  and  dark-haired  little  girl,  buoyant  and  animated,  cannot  be 
her  child :  yet  it  clings  to  her  neck,  and  calls  her  "  mother."  There — the  honest 
farmer,  returning  from  his  toil,  is  met  by  two  almost  infant  prattlers  ;  the  young- 


LILLY  O'BRIEN.  97 

est  a  perfect  specimen  of  childish  helplessness  and  beauty ; — and,  peering  from 
the  window,  is  the  hardly  altered  face  of— Mrs.  Cassidy. 

"  Oh,  that  voice ! — it  is  Peggy's — old  Peggy — as  she  is  still  called,  "  Peggy 
the  Fisher."  She  has  "  a  good  penny  o'  money  of  her  own,"  and  sometimes 
visits  around  the  neighbourhood ;  but  she  is  so  strongly  attached  to  the  family 
to  whom  the  cottage  belongs,  that  she  almost  resides  there. 

"  Och,  ye  craturs,  like  fairy  things,  come  in  to  the  tay ! — sure  it 's  not  fit  for 
the  likes  o'  ye  to  be  muddling  in  the  grass,  even  after  y'er  daddy,  ye  born  blos- 
soms ! — ye  bames  o'  joy ! — ye  comforts  o'  the  ould  'ooman's  heart !  Come,  all 
o'  ye  to  your  own  Peggy.  Och !  't  is  myself  must  set  about,  fair  and  asy,  to 
my  sowl,  and  not  be  passing  my  time,  like  the  flowers  in  May,  wid  the  young 
blossoms  of  the  BANNOW  LILLY." 


PETER  THE  PROPHET. 

ON'T  talk  to  me,  Paddy  Mulvany— don't  talk  to  me ! 
0^^  — where 's  the  use  of  your  talking,  chitter-chatter, 
If  chitter-chatter,  like  a  nest  of  magpies  ?  Don't  I  know 
what  I  know!  —  Improvements,  indeed! — answer  me 
this:  am  not  I  fifty-two  years  and  three  months  old — 
and  having  a  fine  memory,  as  well  as  much  foresight 
— thanks  be  to  God  for  the  same — don't  I  recollect  as 
good  as  fifty  years?  And  what  then?  Why  this; 
that  all  the  trading-boats  landed,  on  that  out  shore, 
[safe  and  sound,  whatever  was  wanted. —  Don't  tell  me 
!  of  the  place  being  inconvanient,  Paddy  Mulvany  :  it's 
1  no  such  thing.  In  a  peaceable  village,  building  a  quay 
I  to  land  coal !  As  if  the  people  can't  burn  turf,  as 
tl.eir  grandfathers  did  afore  them  !  And  timber ! — 
,  won't  wattles  do  for  the  cabins  as  well  as  ever  ?  But 
^^^SSgi  mafk  tne  uPsnot  of  this — every  potato,  every  grain  of 
^4  corn,  Ml  be  bought  up,  and  sent  out  of  the  country,  when 
the  English  boats  come  in,  and  we  shall  be  all  starved ;  and  neither  man 
woman,  nor  child,  will  be  left  alive  to  tell  the  story." 


ALICE   MULVANY 


PETER    THE   PROPHET.  99 

"  Why,  thin,  Mister  Peter,  sure  it 's  yerself  that  sees  the  sunny  side  of  a 
thing ;  ye  Ve  a  mighty  cheering  way  wid  ye,  ever  and  always,"  said  Paddy 
Mulvany,  looking  archly  at  his  companion. 

"  Sunny  side ! — Why,  there  's  no  sunny  side,  man  alive,  to  see.  When 
Wellington  Bridge  was  built  over  the  Scar,  and  sure  they  were  talking  of  that 
bridge  more  than  a  hundred  years  before  it  was  begun ; — no  good  will  come  of 
it,  says  I,  and  I  was  right ;  it  has  now  been  built  three  years,  and  no  road 
made  to  it  yet ;  and,  by  the  same  token,  it 's  cracked  in  the  middle  ;  I  knew  no 
good  would  come  of  it.  Oh,  what  sarvice  that  money  would  have  done  the 
neighbours,  if  it  had  been  properly  laid  out !" 

"  Troth,  Master  Peter,  you  may  say  that — that  is,  I  suppose,  if  you  had 
had  the  management  of  it ;  but  any  how,  the  quay  '11  be  built  in  spite  o'  ye  ; 
for  it 's  an  English  gentleman  that  has  taken  it  in  hand ;  and,  bless  ye,  although 
I  know  ye  kept  a  creditable  shop  in  the  town  o'  Ross,  you  have  no  notion  how 
quick  they  get  things  done  in  England.  Sure  I  see  it  all  whin  I  used  to  take 
Mister  Nick  Lett's  pigs  to  Bristol  fair ;  ye  'd  hardly  credit  it,  but  I  have  seen 
an  entire  street  of  houses  built  up,  plastered,  painted,  papered — great,  big  houses 
— and  the  people  ateing,  drinking,  and  sleeping  in  thim,  comfortable  as  anything, 
all  in  one  week.  Bless  ye,  they  go  about  things,  and  finish  them  out  of  hand 
in  a  jiffy !" 

"  So  much  the  worse — so  much  the  worse,  Paddy  Mulvany ;  no  good  can 
come  of  that ;  but  I  suppose,  as  you  say  an  Englishman  has  taken  it  in  hand, 
the  quay  will  be  built.  Ye  're  all  mad,  I  believe,  barring  myself;  I  see  how  it 
will  end ;  but,  you  mark  my  words,  Paddy  Mulvany,  no  good  will  come  of  it. 
I  '11  just  step  over  to  see  what  they  're  after  down  yonder  ;  so  good-bye,  Paddy 
—remember  my  words !" 

"  God  be  wid  ye,  Master  Peter.  Hulloo !  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Friar 
Mulloy's  brown  nag  pitched  him  into  the  ditch,  and  Mister  Hollin's  chimbly  took 
fire  on  account  of  the  new  English  way  of  sweeping ;  they  put  a  goose  at  the 
top  of  the  chimbly,  and  let  it  fly  down." 

"  There,  didn't  I  say  so  1"  replied  the  little  man,  stopping  and  looking  as  pleased 
as  Punch  at  the  narrative  of  accidents.  "  Sure,  I  told  Friar  Mulloy,  '  that 
nag  '11  brake  yer  reverence's  neck,'  said  I — I  knew  it ;  mark  my  words :  and  as 
to  the  chimbly, — sure  I  guessed  that,  though  I  said  nothin'  about  it." 

"  Why,  thin,  ye  're  a  quare  little  animal  of  a  Christian,  and  ye  believe  every 
word  I  said,  ye  little  fool  of  a  thing !"  continued  Paddy,  as  he  looked  after 
Master  Peter  Callaghan,  alias,  "  Peter  the  Prophet,"  alias,  "  Peter  the  Croaker ;" 
"  and  it 's  a  dale  more  ye  think  of  yerself  than  anybody  thinks  of  ye ;  so  much 
the  better ;  one  madman  in  the  parish  is  enough.  But  yon  chap  's  not  to  say 
clane  mad,  only  a  little  touched,  and  mighty  puffed  out,  thinking  he 's  got  more 
in  his  brain-box  than  any  other  body  in  the  whole  kingdom — priests  and  bishops 
into  the  bargain.  God  forgive  us  all  our  sins  !" 

And  Paddy  went  off  in  an  opposite  direction  from  Peter  the  Prophet,  who 
journeyed  towards  the  intended  quay.  Peter  was  a  slight,  stiff,  pertinacious, 


100  PETER    THE    PROPHET. 

pragmatic  old  bachelor — sour  as  a  crab  apple,  and  obstinate  as  a  mule ;  he  had 
realized  a  small  independence,  and  invariably  passed  his  summer  months  at 
Bannow,  having  taken  it  into  his  head  that  sea  air  did  him  much  good ;  he  was 
a  source  of  great  amusement  to  the  peasantry,  who  named  him  "  Peter  the 
Prophet,"  from  his  habit  of  prognosticating;  others  called  him  "Peter  the 
Croaker,"  for  he  always  prophesied  evil.  Paddy  Mulvany  was  a  very  different 
person — a  cheerful,  careless  Irishman,  whom  the  farmers  held  in  constant 
request  as  a  drover.  The  most  wealthy  considered  themselves  fortunate  in 
securing  Paddy's  services,  when  cattle  were  to  be  sent  to  England  or  Wales. 
In  matters  of  business,  Paddy's  word  was  his  bond ;  and,  although  he  could 
neither  read  nor  write,  his  accounts  were  always  "  fractionally"  correct,  and  he 
made  most  extraordinary  sales  for  his  employers ;  he  had  not  even  his  national 
fault,  the  love  of  whiskey ;  but  I  confess  that  he  sometimes  indulged  in  most 
marvellous  stories,  and  often  quizzed  without  mercy.  He  took  especial  delight 
in  tormenting  Master  Peter,  and  it  was  perfectly  astonishing  how  "  the  Prophet" 
could  ever  have  believed  a  word  that  Paddy  Mulvany  uttered.  He  spoke  the 
truth,  however,  in  saying  that  an  English  gentleman  was  going  to  build  a  quay 
in  Bannow  harbour ;  no  spot  could  be  better  suited  for  the  purpose  than 
that  so  judiciously  fixed  upon ;  it  was  well  sheltered,  and  beautifully  situated, 
with  sufficient  water  to  float  a  thirty-ton  sloop,  even  when  the  tide  was  out — 
the  road  which  led  to  it  was  a  succession  of  hill  and  dale,  at  one  side  shadowed 
by  trees,  while  the  view,  on  the  other,  passed  over  sunny  fields  and  little 
cottages,  and  was  terminated  in  the  distance  by  the  sea — the  boundless  sea, 
forming  innumerable  creeks  and  bays  along  the  coast.  The  little  island  opposite 
was  enlivened  by  a  cheerful-looking  farm  house,  while  a  few  relics  of  some  old 
castles,  o'er  parts  of  which — 

"  The  plough  had  passed,  or  weeds  had  grown," 

served  as  a  relief  to  the  sameness  of  the  view,  and  afforded  subject  for  medita- 
tion :  on  the  land  side,  high  hills  rose  above  the  valley  in  rude  magnificence, 
their  heathy  hue  broken  by  patches  of  cultivation ;  and,  indeed,  nowhere  could 
a  more  interesting  spot  be  found,  than  the  one  selected  by  the  English  gentle- 
man, Mr.  Townsend,  for  the  long-projected  quay.  I  lament,  for  the  sake  of 
Peter  the  Prophet's  reputation,  to  be  compelled  to  state  that  all  things  went  on 
prosperously  at  the  new  building ;  and  even  the  gentry  were  astonished  at  the 
rapidity  with  which  the  work  proceeded ;  each  man  had  his  allotted  portion, 
and  the  wages  were  paid  every  Saturday  evening,  precisely  as  the  clock  struck 
six.  To  the  quay  were  added  stores  and  a  salt  manufactory ;  and,  before  a 
twelvemonth  had  elapsed,  all  was  finished — properly  finished,  plastered,  and 
pointed  ;  the  windows  were  even  and  set — the  slates  regularly  pegged — the  tiles 
all  of  a  size — and  the  buildings  had  a  neat  and  business-like  appearance. 

Peter  the  Prophet  and  Paddy  Mulvany  met  at  nearly  the  same  place  where 
they  had  separated  about  a  year  before,  and  both  turned  their  steps  towards  the 
new  quay. 


PETER   THE    PROPHET.  101 

"  It's  a  fine  sunny  day — God  bless  it ! — Mister  Peter,  and  I  suppose  ye're 
going  to  the  new  quay  to  see  the  fun ;  it  was,  I  must  say,  very  generous  of  Mr. 
Townsend  to  give  us  a  let-out ;  all  the  top  of  the  gintry  are  to  have  a  grand 
entertainment — a  cold  collution  they  call  it — up  stairs  in  the  stores ;  and  below 
there 's  a  piper — and  who  knows  what ! — and  the  atin'  and  the  drinkin'  in 
lashin's — and  the  two  sloops,  that  are  after  comin'  in  with  the  timber  and  coal, 
have  such  gay  streamers  out  as  it 's  quite  charmin'  to  see." 

"  I  don't  see  anything  charming  in  it,  Paddy  Mulvany — charming  in  a 
coloured  rag  flying,  red  and  blue,  like  a  turkey  cock ! — and  as  to  the  entertain- 
ment— mark  my  words,  no  good  will  come  of  it.  What  are  entertainments  of 
all  kinds  but  empty  puff — '  vain  show,'  as  the  poet  says  ? — but  you  have  no  taste 
for  poetry.  No ;  few  have ;  I  had,  however — but  I  gave  it  up— I  had  a  turn 
for  the  grocery  business,  and  poetry  ;  but  no  man  can  be  great  in  two  things — 
so  I  fixed  on  the  former." 

"  That  was  a  mercy,  Mister  Peter,  for  somehow,  although  I  am  but  an  igno- 
rant man,  seeing  I  don't  known  B  from  a  buttercup,  yet  I  think  yer  poetry 
wouldn't  have  sould  as  well  as  yer  tea  and  sugar." 

"  Humph !"  replied  the  Prophet :  "  I  see,  Paddy,  that  long  red  house  is  to 
be  let,  and  the  owner's  off  to  America  ;  there — my  words  always  come  true; 
no  good  will  come  of  that  man,  says  I,  and  so  it  was." 

"  Why,  I  knew  no  good  could  come  of  him  myself,"  replied  Paddy  ;  "  who 
ever  saw  a  good  end  come  to  any  one  that  was  hard  to  the  poor  ? —  besides  being 
unjust,  didn't  he  write  a  will,  and  make  his  dead  uncle  put  his  name  on  it,  by 
houlding  the  corpse's  hand  ?  and  then  he  swore  he  had  life  in  him  at  the  time 
— and  troth,  so  he  had,  for  he  put  a  live  worm  in  the  dead  man's  mouth — the 
baste !" 

"  That's  one  of  your  stories,  Paddy ;  like  what  you  told  me,  long  ago,  about 
Friar  Mulloy's  brown  nag,  and  Mr.  Hollin's  chimbly ;  there  goes  the  friar ; 
that 's  not  a  nag,  but  a  fine  hunter  he's  on  now ;  I  suppose  that's  the  one  Paul 
Doolan  gave  him  for  marrying  him  to  that  foolish  bit  of  a  widow  ;  he's  a  holy 
man,  without  doubt ;  but  mark  my  words,  that  beast  will  break  his  neck,  it's  so 
spirity !" 

"  As  to  the  worm,  ye  may  believe  it  or  not,  as  you  plase,  Mister  Peter,  but 
it's  as  true  as  the  sun's  above  us ;  and  as  to  Friar  Mulloy,  sure  all  the  world 
knows  he's  a  holy  man,  and  a  good ;  never  a  cratur  passes  his  door  without  the 
bit  and  the  sup,  barring  the  gauger  —  the  blackguard  !  —  that  tuck  his  potteen, 
and  kilt  his  ilegant  little  bit  of  a  mare.-  Oh !  wisha !  every  day's  bad  luck  to 
him  for  that  same !" 

"  Is  it  true  that  your  niece,  Alice,  is  going  to  be  married  to  Corry  Howlan  1 
She's  a  sweet  pretty  girl,  but  — " 

"  Now,  Mister  Peter,  or  Peter  the  Prophet,  or  whatever  other  name  you 
may  have,  I'll  just  trouble  ye  to  hould  yer  tongue  about  Alice  and  Corry ;  not 
that  I  care  a  toss-up  (with  all  due  respect)  for  yer  prophecies,  although  ye  want 
everybody  to  believe  ye've  the  second  sight,  like  a  Highlander ;  but  ye  see,  as 


102  PETER  THE  PROPHET. 

they  are  to  be  married,  it 's  unlucky  to  have  any  ill  laid  out  for  them ;  and  as  to 
the  girl,  God's  blessing  be  about  her !  she 's  the  light  of  my  eyes,  and  the  joy  of 
my  heart,  every  day  and  hour  of  her  life,  the  jewil." 

Peter  looked  annoyed  at  hearing  his  prophetic  powers  called  in  question,  but 
he  deemed  it  safer  to  hold  his  peace  for  a  time ;  at  all  events,  until  they  came  in 
view  of  the  new  quay. 

Along  a  green,  shady  lane,  which  led  to  the  centre  of  that  day's  attraction, 
two  people  were  walking,  or  rather  strolling,  very  different  in  appearance  from 
Paddy  and  Peter. — A  lively,  lovely  girl,  with  roguish,  hazel  eyes — not  the  soft 
sleeping  eye  of  that  bewitching  colour,  but  a  round,  brilliant  little  orb,  now 
twinkling,  now  dazzling,  now  half  shut,  not  unfrequently  stealing  under  its  pent- 
house lid  to  "  the  far  corner,"  and  peeping  slyly  about,  for  fun  or  mischief;  the 
nose  of  this  little  personage  was,  moreover,  retroiissee — an  unerring  token  of 
much  spirit,  and,  if  vexed,  not  a  little  spite.  But  it  was  the  glittering  fairness 
of  this  fairy  creature  which,  united  to  the  pure  glow  of  health  and  cheerfulness, 
completed  her  fascination,  and  made  Alice  Mulvany  the  most  perfect  bit  ol 
Nature's  colouring  I  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to  behold.  Her  companion, 
Corry  Howlan,  could  not  have  been  mistaken  as  belonging  to  any  country, 
principality,  or  power,  but  the  green  little  island.  How  often  have  I  been 
both  amused  and  mortified  at  hearing  my  English  friends  exclaim,  whenever  a 
particularly  miserable,  dirty,  round-faced  person  met  their  view,  "  Oh,  how 
like  an  Irishman !" — "  quite  impossible  to  mistake  that  creature  for  anything, 
but  an  Irishman  !"  Trust  me,  those  know  little  of  our  peasantry  who  judge  of 
them  from  bricklayers'  labourers,  superannuated  watchmen,  and  Covent- 
garden  basket-women.  Corry  Howlan  was  a  good  specimen  of  our  small 
farmers,  and  I  will  sketch  him  for  your  amusement,  gentle  reader,  as  he 
loitered  down  that  green  lane  with  his  merry  companion :  —  height,  six  feet,  or 
nearly  so  —  an  air  of  easy  confidence,  and  every  limb  well  proportioned ;  face 
oval ;  teeth,  white  and  even ;  nose,  undefined  as  to  aquiline,  Grecian,  snub,  or 
Roman,  but,  nevertheless,  highly  respectable;  eyes,  large,  bien  foncee,  and 
expressive;  brow,  open  —  shaded  with  rich,  curling,  brown  hair;  the  dress,  as 
usual  on  holiday  occasions  —  red  waistcoat,  blue  coat,  knee-breeches,  white 
stockings,  neat,  black,  Spanish  leather  shoes  —  shirt-collar  thrown  back,  a-la- 
Byron,  loosely  confined  at  the  base  by  a  green  silk  neckerchief,  —  a  "  bran  new 
beaver,"  placed  on  one  side  the  head  in  a  knowing  position,  and  a  stick,  not 
dignified  enough  to  be  designated  as  "  shilalah,"  nor  slight  enough  to  be  called 
"  switch."  There  are  many  likenesses  which,  though  correct  as  to  shape  and 
feature,  fail  in  expression ;  and  so  it  is  in  the  present  instance.  I  cannot  paint 
the  affectionate  feelings  portrayed  in  the  young  man's  face,  when  his  eyes 
rested  on  the  careless,  thoughtless  girl  who  tripped  at  his  side,  as  giddy  as  the 
gay  butterfly  that  waved  from  the  perfumed  meadow-sweet  to  the  beautiful  but 
scentless  convolvulus,  whose  long,  twirling  stems  were  supported,  at  either  side 
their  path,  by  black  thorn  or  greeny  furze.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  features  in 
an  Irish  landscape  is  the  quantity  of  small  singing-birds  which  animate  every 


PETER  THE  PROPHET.  103 

brake  and  bush.  As  they  paced  along,  the  young  folk  disturbed  either  the 
soaring  lark,  the  merry  stone-chatter,  the  gay  goldfinch,  the  tiny  wren,  the 
linnet,  bunting,  or  yellow-hammer ;  when  they  approached  the  thicker  coverts, 
a  jetty  blackbird,  or  timid  partridge,  would  rustle  for  a  moment  amid  the  leaves, 
and  then  dart  across  their  path,  swift  as  an  arrow. 

"  The  poor,  harmless  birdeens !"  said  Corry ;  "  Alice,  do  you  know,  I  never 
could  hurt  one  of  thim  small  things." 

"  Well,  nor  I,  Corry,"  replied  the  little  lass,  "  particularly  the  robin  red- 
breast, that  has  got,  you  know,  the  blessed  Virgin's  own  Son's  blood  upon  it ; 
for  when  the  Saviour  was  crucified,  the  poor  bird  was  heart-sorry,  and  away  it 
flew  round  the  cross,  and  over  the  cross,  bemoaning  all  the  time  ;  and  whin  the 
cruel  Jew-man  pierced  his  holy  side,  some  of  the  blood  flew  on  the  cratur's 
breast,  and  then  it  never  stopped  until  it  nested  in  the  holy  Virgin's  bosom ; 
and  to  be  sure,  she  knew  the  blood,  and  the  faithfulness  of  the  robin,  and  she 
blessed  it,  and  settled  it  so,  that  every  red-breast  has  the  mark  of  the  holy  blood 
to  this  very  day." 

"  You  've  a  good  memory,  Ally ;  I  hope  you  '11  think  of  everything  as  clear 
as  that;  and,  above  all,  don't  forget  what  you  more  than  half — indeed,  as 
good  as  whole — promised  me  last  night  at  yer  uncle's  door,  and  I  laning  aginst 
the  post." 

"I'm  sure,  Corry,  I've  not  the  laste  thought  of  anything; — was  it  about 
Paddy  Clarey's  white  mare  that  broke  into  uncle's  clover-field?"  And  Alice 
stooped  to  gather  a  wild  polyanthus,  whose  blossomy  coronal  pushed  its  way 
over  some  cuckoo-bells  and  crawling  "  Robin-run-the-hedge." 

"  Ye  're  the  devil's  teazer,  Ally,  darling ! — ye  haven't  yer  little  cocked-up  nose 
for  nothing." 

"  Well,  if  I  'm  the  devil's  teazer,  you  own  yerself  the  devil ;  and  as  to  my 
nose,  there  are  plenty  to  admire  it  without  you." 

"  Shure  it 's  I  that  do  admire  it,  and  what 's  more,  love  it,  and  its  owner ;  but 
Alice,  last  night,  don't  you  remember,  whin  the  moonbames  fell  on  your  sweet 
face,  and  whin  ye  turned  away,  even  from  that  weak  light,  to  hide  yer  blushes 

—  (that  ye  did  not  need,  on  account  that  ye  're  too  handsom,  even  without  them) 

—  and  whin  I  held  yer  hand,  and  did  what  I  'm  sartin  no  man  living  would  dare 
to  do  but  myself — kissed  it,  with  warm  love,  and  yet  with  as  much  respect  as  if 
it  had  been  a  queen's: — do  you  remember — oh,  I  know  you  do  !  —  that  whin, 
not  only  I,  but  yer  uncle,  begged  ye  to  fix  the  day,  ye  whispered — oh !  it  was 
so  low,  so  sweet — sweeter,  Alice,  than  ever  I  heard  even  your  own  sweet  voice 
before! — 'to-morrow  I  will  tell?' — that,  that  was  all  you  said;   that  sweet 
*  to-morrow.'     Alice,  I  have  thought  on  it  ever  since.     You  will  not  disappoint 
me.     We  can't  fail  to  be  happy ;  and  all  so  smiling :  yer  uncle,  who  loves  me 
next  to  his  own ;  my  mother  who  dotes  upon  ye — how  could  she  help  it  ? — a 
nate  farm ;  and  this  morning  I  've  been  after  a  milch-white  cow,  for  the  sake  of 
the  luck — such  a  one  isn't  in  the  whole  bar'ny — and  I  've  bought  it  too,  and 
we  '11  look  at  it  this  evening  after  the  bit  o'  dance  at  the  new  quay.    I  didn't 


104  PETER    THE    PROPHET. 

mane  to  tell  ye  yet,  but  somehow  I  can't  keep  anything  from  ye  that  would  give 
ye  satisfaction.  And  now,  darlint ! — Ally,  my  own  Ally — the  day,  the  day !' 
The  young  man  took  the  maiden's  hand  within  his,  and  was  about  to  press  it  to 
his  lips,  when,  instigated  by  a  sudden  fit  of  caprice,  she  jerked  it  from  him,  and 
averting  her  head,  to  hide  the  self-satisfied  smile  which  played  over  her  counte- 
nance, replied : 

"  You  need  not  make  so  free,  'sir ;  I  said  that,  jist  to  please  uncle.  I  can  do 
no  such  thing ;  and  I  hate  white  cows." 

Corry  had  been  long  enough  a  lover  to  have  suffered  from  those  little  whim- 
sical tricks  which,  poor  as  well  as  rich,  Misses  practise  for  their  own  amuse- 
ment, and  their  lovers'  mortification.  I  must  confess,  I  am  often  amused  at  the 
discomfiture  the  lords  of  the  creation  experience  upon  such  occasions ;  they  twist 
and  writhe  so  much  under  their  sufferings,  like  eels  trying  to  get  out  of  their 
skin ;  anxious  to  show  off  in  all  their  native  dignity,  yet  fearing  to  offend  the 
slippery  fair  one,  who,  for  all  her  teazing,  would  not  lose  the  "  tasseled  gentil" 
for  worlds.  Then,  after  marriage,  the  noble  Sir  beginning  to  think  it  is  his 
turn  to  show  off,  grows  capricious ;  and  then  some  old  bachelor  uncle,  or  brother, 
tough  and  crusty,  and  perpendicular  as  a  church-steeple,  gives  the  bride-groom 
his  "  word  of  advice,  to  put  his  feet  in  his  shoes,  keep  her  nose  to  the  grind- 
ing-stone,  support  the  dignity  of  his  sex,  keep  his  own  secrets,"  &c.  And 
the  bride  has  her  "  female  friends ;"  old  maiden  aunts,  who  hate  "  male  crea- 
tures," and  beg  their  "  dear  niece  to  have  a  will  and  a  way  of  her  own,  and  be 
mistress  in  her  own  house ;"  and  poor  relations,  anxious  that  the  lady  should 
have  a  private  purse,  that  stumbling-block  to  domestic  happiness : — "  so  dis- 
agreeable to  go  to  a  husband  for  every  shilling," — "  no  need  to  inform  a  man  of 
all  things," — "  never  suffer,  a  husband  to  know  how  much  you  love  him."  And, 
if  these  counsellors  are  attended  to,  the  cat-and-dog  warfare  commences,  and 
the  "  I  will,"  and  "  I  won't,"—"  You  shall,"  "  I  shan't,"—"  Sir,"—"  Madam," 
all  which  terminates  with  the  mutual  exclamation — "  Would  to  heaven  we  had 
never  been  married !" 

Now,  a  little  harmless  teazing  does  no  harm  in  the  world :  where  "  bear  and 
forbear"  is  moderately  attended  to,  it  gives  a  zest,  a  spirit  to  existence ;  and 
where  there  is  much  and  pure  affection — 

M  The  short  passing  anger  but  serves  to  awaken 
Fresh  beauties,  like  flowers  that  are  sweetest  when  shaken." 

Not  that  I  mean  to  say  Alice  was  right  in  asserting  "  she  hated  white  cows," 
which  was  a  decided  story.  No  Irish  girl  or  woman  yet  ever  hated  a  white 
cow ;  the  thing  is  impossible — quite.  Everybody,  who  knows  anything,  knows 
that  a  white  cow  is  as  good  as  the  priest's  blessing,  or  holy  water,  in  the  house 
of  the  early  wed ;  and  it  was  much  too  saucy  a  thing  to  say :  but  her  nose  was 
up,  and  her  tongue  went  as  nimbly  as  a  greyhound's  foot 
"  Well,  Alice,"  replied  Corry,  who,  as  I  said  before,  often  suffered  from  his 


PETER  THE  PROPHET.  105 

love's  whimseys — "  I  'm  perfectly  astonished  at  yer  not  liking  the  white  cow  that 
I  bought  to  plase  ye ;  but,  whin  ye  see  her,  I  know  ye  '11  admire  her,  beyant — " 

"  Ye  need  not  have  troubled  yerself  to  buy  the  cow,  Mr.  Cony,  for  me ;  for 
may-be  I  '11  never  own  her,"  interrupted  Alice. 

"  Ye  're  not  going  to  be  jilty  after  yer  promise,  and  yer  uncle  to  the  fore, 
Alice,"  said  Corry,  who  loved  her  too  well  to  have  the  wedding  jested  about. 

"  I  gave  no  promise  to  be  bothered  wid  ye ;  and  whether  I  did  or  no,  I  '11 
change  my  mind  if  I  like,  myself." 

"  Is  that  the  pattern  of  yer  honour,  Miss  Alice  Mulvany  ?"  inquired  the  young 
man,  much  annoyed. 

"  Mind  yer  own  business,  if  ye  plase,  Mr.  Cornelius  Howlan,  and  I  '11  mind 
mine.  I  've  bothered  him  fairly,"  she  muttered  to  herself,  "  I  knew  I  'd  get  a  rise 
out  of  him." 

"  May-be,  Miss  Alice,  ye  'd  rather  have  my  room  than  my  company  1" 

"  There 's  no  manner  o'  doubt  of  it." 

"  May-be,  Miss  Mulvany,  ye  'd  wish  me  to  take  my  lave  ?" 

"  Ye  have  the  lave,  so  now  take  yerself  off,"  she  replied,  very  sharply. 

The  young  man  looked  earnestly  in  her  face,  and  said,  in  his  usual  affectionate 
tone,  "  Dear  Alice,  let  us  be  friends — dear  Alice — you  can't,  can't  really  mean 
to  quarrel  with  your  Corry — dear — " 

"  Don't  dear  Alice  me,  sir,  after  that  fashion !  Don't  dare  to  dear  Alice  me ! 
— what  do  ye  mean  ?  After  callin'  me  jilty,  and  all  manner  o'  names,  to  be 
coming  '  dear  Alice'  over  me  ! — no,  sir;  and  I  tell  ye  my  mind,  Mister  Cornelius 
Howlan,  I  hate  you  as  well  as  the  white  cow,  and  I  won't  dance  a  step  with  ye, 
nor  spake  a  word  more  to  ye,  this  blessed  day,  Amen ! — and  if  ye  take  my 
advice,  ye '11  be  off  with  yerself!" 

Alice,  after  this  pretty  piece  of  eloquence,  tossed  her  little  head,  pressed 
her  lips  firmly  together,  and  walked  sturdily  towards  the  main  road.  Corry 
did  all  he  could  to  make  her  laugh  or  speak- — but  no;  she  was  as  obstinate  as 
a  mule.  He  gathered  wild  flowers  and  stuck  them  in  her  hat — she  flung  them 
from  her ;  he  told  his  drollest  stories ;  then  he  reasoned  with  her ;  then,  in  his 
fine,  rich  voice,  he  sung  her  favourite  airs;— and  the  only  wonder  is,  that  she 
managed  to  hold  her  tongue  so  long  —  she  afterwards  confessed  it  was  sore  at 
the  tip  from  inaction.  —  At  last,  quite  wearied  by  her  stubbornness,  Corry  said, 
as  they  drew  near  the  new  quay,  "  Now  look,  Alice,  I  '11  not  taze  ye  with 
spaking  any  more  this  day ;  but,  may-be,  before  night  comes,  you  '11  be  sorry 
for  this  fit  of  the  dumps." 

What  a  cheerful,  noisy  assemblage !  A  pattern ! — a  pattern  was  nothing  to 
it.  There  was  the  clear  sea,  and  the  small  waves  running  little  races  on  the 
firm  strand ;  the  two  brigs,  the  largest  ever  seen  close  to  the  shore  in  that  part 
of  the  world,  drawn  up  to  the  quay,  which  was  crowded  by  the  gentry  and 
bettermost  farmers'  wives  and  daughters,  with  the  piper  at  one  end,  and  the 
fiddler  at  the  other,  both  playing  the  same  tune,  of  which  little  could  be  heard 
for  the  shouting,  the  laughing,  and  the  chattering ;  then  the  windows  of  the 
14 


106  PETER    THE    PROPHET. 

stores  were  all  open,  and  such  of  the  ladies  as  did  not  like  to  encounter  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  tempered  even  as  it  was  by  the  refreshing  sea-breeze,  were 
seated  on  high,  enjoying  the  noise  and  bustle  ;  while  the  large  rooms  beneath 
sent  forth  such  clouds  of  savoury  perfumes  as  told  of  roast  and  boiled,  pickled 
and  preserved,  besides  spicery  and  cates  that  would  do  honour  to  an  alder- 
manic  assembly.  Then  the  machines,  employed  to  convey  the  company  invited 
from  various  parts  of  the  country,  were  amazingly  curious :  one  or  two  car- 
riages of  ancient  days ;  some  few  gigs ;  jaunting  cars,  under  all  their  classifica- 
tions—  the  double,  the  inside,  the  outside;  then  the  common  car  "made 
comfortable,"  for  the  more  homely,  first  filled  with  straw,  then  a  feather-bed, 
covered  with  that  destroyer  of  time,  calico,  and  taste  —  a  patch  quilt.  I  have 
seen  five  dames,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  in  such  a  conveyance ;  two  seated 
next  the  horse's  tail,  partly  on  the  shafts  of  the  car,  two  in  the  middle  of  the 
feather-bed  (no  bad  seat  that),  and  one  cross-ways  at  the  bottom ;  this  unfor- 
tunate is  always  obliged  to  hold  fast  with  both  hands,  for  a  sudden  jerk  would 
inevitably  dislodge  the  most  ponderous.  So  they  reached  our  pretty  quay  of 
Bannow,  situated  in  a  district  for  which  commerce  ought  to  do  much  more 
than  it  has  done ;  although  our  harbour  is  not  a  good  one  for  large  vesssels, 
it  is  "elegant"  for  small  craft.  The  place  is  very  picturesque.  Directly 
opposite  is  the  village  of  Fethard,  a  corruption  of  "  Fought-hard ;"  so  called, 
it  is  said,  because  here  occurred  the  first  battle  between  the  Anglo-Normans 
and  the  "  mere  Irish,"  immediately  after  the  arrival  of  the  former  upon  the 
soil,  of  which  they  subsequently  became  possessors.  One  of  the  earliest 
castles  of  the  invaders  still  exists  —  a  picturesque  ruin.  A  few  miles  inland  is 
"Tintern  Abbey,"  now  a  modern  residence,  bu.t  once  a  famous  monastic 
institution;  where,  it  is  reported,  and  universally  believed,  the  spirits  of  the 
murdered  monks  still  take  their  solemn  walk,  yearly,  on  the  eve  of  the  anni- 
versary of  All-Saints.  Overlooking  the  quay  is  the  old  church  of  Bannow ;  and 
still  nearer  to  it  are  the  remains  of  one  of  the  old  square  towers,  of  which  the 
followers  of  Strongbow  erected  so  many  in  all  parts  of  our  country.  The 
whole  neighbourhood  is,  indeed,  deeply  interesting  to  the  historian  and  the 
antiquarian.  But  to  my  story. 

The  sailors  mixed  with  the  rustic  groups,  congregated  under  several  awn- 
ings that  stretched  along  the  strand,  and  enjoyed  the  eagerness  shown  by  the 
untravelled  peasantry  to  inspect  the  wonders  of  their  barques,  which  were 
cleaned  and  trimmed  gaily  out  for  the  purpose  of  exhibition.  The  most 
interesting  of  all  the  sights,  however,  was  a  black  cabin-boy :  scarcely  any  one, 
in  Bannow,  had  ever  seen  a  negro,  and  the  poor  little  fellow  was  subjected  to 
all  manner  of  inspection ;  the  old  women  were  for  washing  and  scraping  him, 
to  see  if  he  could  be  brought  to  a  "  dacent  colour ;"  the  young  ones  appeared 
terrified:  and  Peter  the  Prophet,  after  much  critical  examination,  declared 
"  that  no  good  could  come  of  bringing  such  outlandish  things  among 
Christians." 

"  Ally,  my  dear,"  said  Paddy  Mulvany  to  his  niece,  "  what  ails  ye,  that  ye 


PETER  THE  PROPHET.  ,  107 

look  so  solid  ? — come,  you  and  Corry  are  illegant  hands  at  the  jig,  and  ye  must 
both  put  the  best  foot  foremost  to-night,  'cause  of  the  gintry." 

"  I  '11  not  dance  a  step  this  night,  uncle,  with  Corry !"  she  replied,  heartily 
sick  of  her  resolve,  but  mistaking  obstinacy  for  firmness ;  "  I  won't  do  it,  because 
I  said  I  wouldn't ;  and,  for  the  matter  o'  that,  he  doesn't  want  me  to — he  's  been 
flirting  away  this  half-hour  with  Ellen  Muccleworth." 

"  He 's  been  doing  no  such  thing,  my  dear ;.  I  've  been  watching  ye  both ;  you 
won't  spake  to  him,  and  yet  ye  ixpect  him  to  sit  at  yer  elbow,  putting  up  with 
yer  snouting — for  what  ?  I  '11  go  bail  ye  don't  know  yerself.  It 's  well,  pretty 
Alice,  I  'm  not  yer  bachelor ;  I  'd  lave  ye  to  get  rid  of  yer  humours  as  ye  could, 
my  jewel." 

So  saying,  Paddy  Mulvany  turned  on  his  heels ;  tears  filled  the  fine  eyes  of 
Alice,  but  she  remained  obstinate  as  ever ;  and,  when  Corry  danced  with  Ellen, 
she  really  believed  herself  a  much  injured,  insulted  little  maiden. 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  she  to  herself — "  I  '11  not  sit  quiet  to  please  him — I  '11 
jig  it  with  the  very  next  boy  that  asks  me."  And  so  she  did ;  throwing  off  her 
mantle ;  folding  her  gay  kerchief  over  her  head  and  neck ;  and  exhibiting  her 
pretty  figure  to  the  best  advantage,  in  her  loose  "jacket"  of  white,  bordered 
with  muslin ;  while  her  buckled  shoes  marvellously  set  off  her  small  feet. 
"  The  next  boy  that  asked  her,"  was  no  other  than  handsome  Horatio  Laverton, 
the  mate  of  the  timber  vessel ;  and  Corry  had  the  mortification  of  seeing  that 
Alice  danced  to  perfection,  and  of  hearing  such  expressions  of  approbation  from 
the  surrounding  company,  as — "  Illegantly  danced !" — "  Success !" — "  Well,  in 
all  my  time,  I  niver  saw  so  sweet  a  couple  on  the  flure."  "  Corry,  ye  're  bate 
out  by  the  English  boy — clane  bate — and  at  the  jig  too."  "  Hurra ! — there  's 
a  fling ;  well,  that  is  dancing !"  Then  Alice  figured  in  a  three-handed  reel, 
with  the  mate  and  her  rival,  Ellen,  and,  certainly,  she  had  the  advantage  there ; 
for  Ellen  was  pronounced  as  "  not  fit  to  hould  a  candle  to  her."  Yet,  as  the 
evening  waned  on,  Alice's  bad  spirits  increased,  and  even  the  attentions  of  the 
handsome  Horatio  Laverton  failed  to  reconcile  her  to  the  reproaches  of  that 
little,  silent,  yet  powerful  monitor  within  her  own  bosom.  As  the  moon  rose 
slowly  over  the  waters,  she  remembered  that  she  had  been  more  happy  at  her 
uncle's  door,  with  no  eye  upon  her  but  her  lover's,  than  she  was  at  that  moment, 
walking  up  and  down  the  pier,  with  an  almost  stranger,  and  listening  to  so 
much  praise  that  she  began  to  doubt  she  could  deserve  it :  still  she  remained 
obstinate. 

"  We  will  make  friends  to-morrow,"  said  she  to  herself;  and,  as  she  stood 
leaning  on  handsome  Horatio  Laverton's  arm,  looking  toward  the  little  island 
of  Bannow,  Corry  and  her  uncle  came  on  the  pier.  She  saw,  in  a  moment,  that 
her  lover  had  taken  too  much  whiskey-punch,  and  this  reminded  her  that  he  had 
broken  a  promise  he  had  made  her  the  preceding  evening.  She  forgot  how  she 
had  acted  herself;  and,  when  Corry  good-humouredly  spoke  to  her,  turned  away, 
curled  up  her  nose,  and  replied  not. 


108»  PETER  THE  PROPHET. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find,  Alice,"  he  said,  "  that  you  like  the  smell  of  tar  better  than 
that  of  whiskey."  This  remark  was  only  noticed  by  the  little  nose  mounting  still 
higher ;  but  the  sailor  immediately  replied  : 

"  I  suppose,  Mister  Irishman,  the  young  lady,  may  like  what  she  chooses." 

Cony,  hot,  hasty,  and  rapid,  was  nothing  loath  to  answer ;  but  Paddy  Mul- 
vany  interfered  immediately. 

"  Mister  mate— that  young  lady  as  you  are  so  civil  as  to  call  her,  is  my  niece 
and,  moreover,  engaged  to  that  young  man ;  some  tiff  came  betwixt  them  this 
morning,  but  it  '11  blow  off,  only  I  'm  sorry  my  eldest  brother's  child  should 
act  so  flirty  a  part  Come,  you  two  shake  hands ;  sure  we  ought  all  to  be  glad 
of  the  strangers  who  will  bring,  not  only  plenty,  but  peace,  to  our  strand."  The 
young  men  shook  hands,  and  Paddy  Mulvany  placed  his  niece's  arm  within 
his,  and  whispered  that  it  was  time  to  go  home. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  our  pier  and  harbour  ?"  inquired  Corry  of  the  mate. 

"  It's  nicely  suited  for  trade,"  replied  the  sailor,  "  and  the  little  island,  opposite, 
shelters  it  from  the  nor'-west  wind.  I  '11  try  and  swim  to  that  spot  to-morrow 
morning ;  though,  if  I  can  do  it,  I  suppose  I  'm  the  only  one  in  the  country 
could  ;  it 's  a  long  stretch." 

"  It 's  a  good  swim  for  sartin,  but  I  'd  do  it  as  easy  as  kiss  my  hand — clothes 
and  all,  this  minute,  with  all  the  ease  in  life." 

"  Well,  that 's  good,  faith ! — now,  do  you  expect  me  to  believe  that  ?  Why, 
I  'd  bet  ye  a  gallon  of  stiff  grog  ye  'd  founder  before  ye  'd  get  half  way." 

"  Done." 

"  Done." 

"  Done  and  done 's  enough  betwixt  us  two  at  any  time,  and  so  here  goes, 
clothes  and  all,  excepting  coat  and  shoes." 

"  What  are  ye  after,  Corry  ?"  inquired  Paddy  Mulvany,  seeing  him  taking  off 
his  coat. 

"  Going  to  swim  to  the  island  for  a  small  taste  of  a  wager ;  this  gentleman 
says,  though  he 's  a  seafaring  man,  it 's  impossible ;  so  I  'm  jist  going  to  show  him 
the  differ,  for  the  honour  of  ould  Ireland ;  I  'm  no  fresh-water  rat,  to  fear  a 
ducking  in  the  brine — here  goes !' 

Whenever  a  true-born  Patlander  meditates  a  dashing  exploit,  it  is  for  the 
honour  of  "  ould  Ireland ;"  and  many  of  Corry's  friends,  heedless  of  the  conse- 
quence, cheered  him  to  the  undertaking.  Paddy  expostulated ;  but  the  voice  of 
the  thoughtless  is  always  loud ;  his  reasonings  were  not  heard. 

"  What ! — strike  a  bet  to  an  Englishman  I—a  bet  mus'nt  be  broken." 

"  But  I  say  it  must  and  shall,"  said  Paddy,  "  he 's  not  in  a  fit  state  to  swim ; 
put  on  your  coat,  Corry ;  here 's  Ally  will  ax  you  not  to  go." 

"  Will  she  ?"  exclaimed  Corry ;  "  if  she  does,  I  '11  give  it  up— pay  the  grog ; 
and  that 's  more  than  I  'd  do  for  any  man,  woman,  or  child,  barring  herself." 

"  Alice,"  said  her  uncle,  in  an  under-tone,  "  Alice,  for  the  love  of  God,  ax 
him  not  to  go ;  as  sure  as  ye  're  alive  some  harm  '11  happen  to  him." 

"  I.  don't  care,"  replied  the  sulky  beauty. 


PETER    THE    PROPHET.  109 

Corry  heard  the  words.  "  You  don't  care,  Alice ; — now  here  goes  in  earnest !" 
and  he  sprang  off  the  pier  into  the  ocean.  Alice  flew  to  the  spot,  and  ejaculated, 
"  Dear  Corry  !" — but  it  was  too  late.  "  I  knew  the  tide  would  be  over  strong," 
exclaimed  Mulvany  ;  "  and  so  much  whiskey  !" 

"  By  George,  he  's  doing  it  nobly  !"  said  the  Englishman. 

"  Quid  Ireland  for  ever !"  shouted  the  peasants.  Paddy  knew  well  that  the 
attempt  was  highly  dangerous ;  he  had  often  seen  Cornelius  swim,  and  perceived 
the  difference  now.  Without  uttering  a  sentence,  he  jumped  from  the  pier  to 
the  deck  of  the  nearest  vessel,  then  dropped  into  a  little  boat  that  was  alongside, 
which  was  quickly  unmoored,  and,  seizing  the  oars,  tacked  after  His  young  friend. 
This  \vas  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  one  of  the  English  sailors  observed — 

"  I  say,  who  'd  ha'  thought  that  yon  old  fresh-water  chap  could  have  slipped 
that  craft  off  so  nimbly  ?" 

It  was  one  of  the  clearest  evenings  that  ever  beamed  out  of  the  heavens ;  the 
moon  had  risen  up  an  unclouded  sky ;  the  waters  reflected  the  "  night's  fair 
queen,"  and  the  little  twinkling  stars,  in  its  clear  blue  bosom.  The  island  may 
be  somewhat  more  than  an  Irish  mile  from  the  pier,  and  the  efforts  Corry  made 
to  gain  it  were  distinctly  visible ;  but  the  eddy  near  the  distant  shore  was  very 
strong.  As  there  were  many  jutting  crags  that  intercepted  the  even  flowing  of 
the  tide,  Paddy  Mulvany  did  not  follow  in  the  exact  track,  but  kept  to  the  right 
of  Corry ;  Alice  stood  on  the  pier  in  breathless  anxiety ;  and  that  feeling  was 
increased  to  one  of  indescribable  agony,  when  she  heard  the  mate  exclaim, 
"  Good  God  ! — sure  it  can't  be ! — yes,  the  current — he 's  struggling !  as  I  hope 
to  be  saved,  he 's  gone  down !"  The  crowd  now  pressed  forward  to  the  end  of 
the  pier.  Stoutly  did  Mulvany  try  to  tack  his  boat  so  as  to  gain  the  drowning  man; 
but,  unfortunately,  she  struck  upon  a  sand  bank,  and  there  was  no  time  to  disen- 
gage her ;  he,  therefore,  relinquished  the  oars,  and  plunged  into  the  sea.  By 
this  time  Corry  had  risen ;  but  before  his  friend  reached  him  he  had  again  disap- 
peared. One  loud,  long  shriek  of  agony  drew  the  attention  of  the  spectators, 
for  a  moment,  to  the  land ;  it  was  Corry's  aged,  widowed  mother :  she  rushed 
fearfully  along  the  quay,  exclaiming,  "  My  boy — my  boy! — my  blessed  boy  ! 
It  was  with  difficulty  she  was  restrained  from  casting  herself  into  the  waters  ; 
her  eye  fixed  on  Alice,  and  she  said,  in  a  tone  between  bitterness  and  affection, 
"  Ally,  Ally  ! — why  did  ye  let  him  go  ?' 

Mulvany  had  watched  the  moment  for  Corry's  rising,  and  "treaded  the 
water,"  while  he  seized  him  by  the  collar,  so  as  to  prevent  the  possibility  of 
grappling.  Instead  of  the  exertion  he  expected,  he  was  much  horrified  to  find 
the  poor  fellow  apparently  a  motionless  corpse ;  and,  when  he  placed  him  in  the 
boat,  no  symptom  of  lingering  life  was  manifested.  A  loud  shout  from  the 
shore  told,  plainly,  how  sincerely  the  people  rejoiced  in  what  they  considered 
the  success  of  Mulvany's  exertions.  Alice  and  Corry's  mother  rushed  into 
each  other's  arms,  tremblingly  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  boat ;  but  it  is  quite 
impossible  to  describe  what  followed,  when  the  wet  and  senseless  form  of  the 
beloved  of  their  hearts  was  laid  on  the  strand. 


110  PETER  THE  PROPHET. 

One  in  the  crowd  tried  to  soothe  the  wild  grief  of  Alice.  «  Asy,  asy,  dear ! 
sure  it's  God's  will!"  She  turned  towards  the  man  who  had  spoken,  and 
pointed  to  the  body ;  then,  with  the  action  of  frenzy,  shook  the  pale  hand, 
shrieking,  "  Corry,  oh,  Corry,  dear !— why  won't  ye  wake  ?  Oh,  wake,  wake ! 
't  is  I  that  ask  it !"  and  the  unhappy  girl  fell  senseless  on  the  bosom  of  him  she 
had  dearly  loved.  The  noise  roused  the  mother,  who  had  been  wiping  off  the 
chill  damp  from  her  son's  forehead ; — her  sorrow  "  was  too  deep  for  tears."  "  I 
tell  ye,  Alice,he's  dead!"  she  murmured,  when  the  girl's  lament  broke  upon  her 
ear,  "  and  will  never  wake  again !"  She  bent  over  him,  while  her  hand  rested 
on  his  ashy  brow,  and  muttered,  unconscious  of  the  presence  of  strangers,  "  You 
were  a  good  son,  agra ! — the  green  plant  of  the  desert.  How  like  his  father  he 
is  now,  whin  I  saw  him  last — jist  before  they  put  him  in  the  could  grave,  in  the 
morning  of  his  days — dead — dead — " 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  the  captain  of  the  vessel,  pushing  through  the 
crowd,  "  it  is  impossible  that  such  a  strong,  fine  fellow  as  that,  could  be  smo- 
thered, in  so  short  a  time,  by  a  mere  mouthful  of  salt  water ;  come,  my  hearties, 
lend  a  hand,  and  haul  him  on  board  ;  there 's  hot  water,  and  stoves,  and  every 
convenience,  and  it  won't  be  the  first  time  we  brought  a  lad  to  life  after  a 
ducking !"  The  old  woman  looked  earnestly  in  his  face,  and,  clasping  her  hands, 
faintly  articulated,  "Life — to  life!  God's  blessing '.—life— life !" — and  accom- 
panied the  kind-hearted  Englishman. 

At  any  other  time,  the  Irish  would  have  strenuously  exerted  themselves  to 
prevent  the  interference  of  the  English  about  "  death  consarns ;"  but  the  cap- 
tain's kind  manner,  and  Mr.  Townsend's  going  on  board,  silenced  all  their 
scruples.  Paddy  Mulvany,  also,  followed,  supporting  his  niece,  whose  youthful 
feelings  rebounded  at  the  prospect  of  Corry's  recovery.  As  Paddy  was  step- 
ping on  board,  some  one  pulled  his  sleeve,  and  the  ominous  face  of  "  Peter  the 
Prophet,"  popped  over  his  shoulder. 

"I  just  wanted  to  remind  you,  Paddy  Mulvany,  that  I  tould  ye  no  good 
would  come  of*  the  new  quay ;  you  '11  just  please  to  remember,  Paddy  Mul- 
vany— " 

Paddy  turned  full  on  him — "  Ye  ill-looking,  croaking,  money-making,  ould 
vagabond,  if  I  catch  yer  wizen  raven-face  within  tin  yards  of  me  or  mine,  either 
in  town  or  country,  I  Ml  just  give  ye  the  finish— and  here 's  the  beginning !" 

The  drover  made  a  blow  at  Mister  Peter,  which,  if  it  had  arrived  at  its  des- 
tination, would  have  silenced  his  prognostication  for  a  time ;  but  he  had  wisely 
retreated,  and  ever  afterwards  kept  the  other  side  of  the  road  when  he  espied 
Paddy's  figure  approaching. 

The  efforts  of  the  English  crew  were  successful ;  and  the  next  morning  a 
group  of  three— no— -four,  passed  up  the  green  lane,  where  the  birds  were  sing- 
ing, and  the  flowers  blossoming,  as  sweetly  as  on  the  past  evening. 

An  old  woman  could  hardly  be  said  to  be  in  the  advance,  so  closely  did  she 
keep,  and  so  often  did  she  turn  back  to  look  upon  the  party  of  three,  who  filled 
up  the  pathway.  A  young  man,  exceedingly  pale,  was  in  the  centre,  and  he 


PETER  THE  PROPHET. 


Ill 


derived  support  and  happiness  from  those  on  whom  he  leant.  The  girl  was 
delicate  to  look  upon,  and  the  tear-drop  glittered  in  her  eye,  even  when  the 
pale  youth  gazed  upon  her  with  looks  of  unspeakable  affection.  His  hand  lay, 
but  could  hardly  be  said  to  lean,  upon  her  fairy  arm ;  while  his  companion,  on 
the  other  side,  had  enough  to  sustain. 

Alice  became  a  reformed  flirt ;  and,  although  she  never  quite  conquered  her 
love  for  ingeniously  tormenting,  yet  did  she  conquer  her  obstinacy,  and  declare 
unqualified  approbation  of  the  white  cow. — I  cannot  say  so  much  for  Peter, 
who  continues  to  prognosticate,  after  his  old  fashion,  and  bitterly  complains  that 
a  prophet  hath  no  honour  in  his  own  land. 


JACK  THE   SHRIMP. 

IGHT  or  ten  years  ago  there  lived,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Bannow,  a  long,  lean,  solitary  man,  known 
by  no  other  appellation,  that  ever  I  heard  of,  than  that 
of  "  Jack  the  Shrimp."  He  was  a  wild,  desolate  look- 
ing creature ;  black,  lank  hair  fell  over  his  face  and 
shoulders,  and  either  rested  in  straight  lines  on  his  pale, 
hollow  cheeks,  or  waved  gloomily  in  the  passing 
breeze;  his  eyes  were  deep-set  and  dark;  and  there 
was  something  almost  mysterious  in  his  deportment. 
Some  persons  imagined  him  to  be  an  idiot ;  but  others, 
who  knew  Jack  better,  asserted  that  his  intellects  were 
of  a  superior  order;  however,  as  few  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  his  acquaintance,  the  former  opinion  pre- 
vailed. Jack  could  be  found  everywhere,  except  in  a 
dwelling  house ;  he  had  a  singular  antipathy  to  dry  or 
sheltered  abodes,  and  never  appeared  at  home  except 
when  on  the  rocky  sea-shore,  scrambling  up  the  cliffs, 
or,  in  clear  weather,  looking  out  for  the  scattered 
vessels  that  passed  into  Waterford  harbour.  Nobody  seemed  to  know  how  he 
came  to  our  isolated  neighbourhood ;  his  first  appearance  had  created  a  good 

(112) 


JACK    THE    SHRIMP.  113 

deal  of  village  gossip,  but  that  had  gone  by,  and  his  gentle  and  kindly  manner 
endeared  him  to  the  peasantry :  the  affectionate  greeting  of  "  God  save  ye  !" — 
"  God  save  ye  kindly  !" — was  frequently  exchanged  between  the  solitary  shrimp- 
gatherer  (for  such  was  Jack's  ostensible  employment),  and  the  merry  "  boys  and 
girls,"  who,  at  all  seasons,  collect  sea-weed,  and  burn  il  into  kelp,  on  the  sea- 
shore. Often  have  I  seen  him  in  the  early  morning,  at  low  water,  his  bare,  lank 
legs  tramping  over  the  moist  sand,  or  midway  in  the  rippling  wave ;  his  pole, 
some  six  feet  long — the  net  full  of  shrimps  at  one  end,  and  the  heavy  hook  at  the 
other,  balancing  it  over  one  shoulder — while  from  the  opposite  were  suspended 
two  wicker-baskets,  frequently  filled  with  lobsters,  or  smaller  shell-fish,  which  he 
contrived  to  hook  out  of  their  holes  with  extraordinary  dexterity.  The  sole 
companion  of  his  rambles  was  a  little,  black, — I  really  know  not  what  to  call  it 
so  as  to  distinguish  its  peculiar  tribe,  but  it  may  be  sufficient  to  state  that  it 
was  a  black,  ugly  dog,  who,  by  way  of  economy,  usually  walked  upon  three 
legs,  partly  blind,  and,  like  its  master,  lonely  in  its  habits,  and  shy  in  its 
demeanour.  This  animal,  who,  appropriately  enough  answered  to  the  name 
of  Crab,  was  the  means  of  my  introduction  to  its  taciturn  lord.  Even  in 
childhood  I  was  devotedly  attached  to  the  sea ;  somewhat  amphibious — fond, 
when  I  dared,  of  getting  off  my  shoes  and  stockings,  and  dabbling  in  the  fairy 
pools  which  the  receding  ocean  left  in  the  hollow .  clefts  of  the  rocks ;  and 
fonder  still  of  chasing  the  waves  as  they  rolled  along  the  sloping  beach.  My 
affection  for  this  dangerous  amusement  was  so  well  known,  that  I  was  never 
permitted  to  go  to  the  strand,  although  it  was  considerably  within  a  mile  of 
our  house,  unattended  by  an  old,  steady  dependent  of  the  family,  Nelly  Parrell 
by  name,  who  was  entrusted  with  the  care  of  all  the  young  folk  in  the  country 
on  their  sea-side  excursions.  But  there  was  another  companion  who  loved  to 
be  with  me — my  noble  favourite,  Neptune,  a  tall,  stately  Newfoundland  dog, 
thoughtful  and  sagacious.  It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  so  high-born  an 
animal  would  condescend  to  associate  with  a  low-bred  tyke ;  and  no  mark  of 
recognition,  that  ever  I  perceived,  passed  between  him  and  Crab,  any  more 
than  between  myself  and  the  shrimp-gatherer,  who,  I  dare  say,  thought  a 
noisy,  laughing  girl  of  ten,  a  sad  disturber  of  his  solitude.  One  morningj 
during  spring-tide,  having  just  bathed,  I  had  quitted  the  box  to  take  my 
accustomed  stroll  along  the  shore;  when,  on  a  rock,  a  considerable  distance 
from  land,  and  which  the  inflowing  rapid  waves  were  covering  fast,  I  saw  and 
heard  poor  Crab  in  evident  distress:  the  fact  was,  that  part  of  his  master's 
tackle  wanted  some  alteration  ;  and  Jack,  forgetting  it  was  spring-tide,  had 
placed  his  lobster-baskets  on  a  high  rock,  and  directed  his  dog  to  watch  them 
until  his  return  from  the  village ;  Crab  would  not  desert  his  trust,  and  to  save 
him  appeared  impossible,  even  to  his  master,  who  had  just  descended  the 
cliffs,  as  the  intermediate  waters  became  deep  and  dangerous.  I  never  saw 
any  man  in  greater  agony  than  Jack  on  this  occasion ;  repeatedly  did  he  call 
to  the  faithful  animal — yet  it  would  not  quit  the  spot.  Neptune  was  never 
particularly  quick ;  but,  when  he  did  comprehend,  he  was  prompt  in  doing  all 
15 


114  JACK  THE  SHRIMP. 

things  for  the  best ;  suddenly  he  understood  the  entire  matter,  plunged  fear- 
lessly among  the  waves,  and  soon  returned,  bearing  Crab,  between  his  teeth, 
to  the  shore;  not  content  with  this  exploit,  he  twice  re-entered,  and  brought 
the  baskets  to  the  feet  of  the  grateful  man  of  shrimps.  I  do  believe  the  poor 
fellow  would,  to  use  his  own  words,  at  the  moment,  have  walked  "  barefoot  to 
Jericho,  to  sarve  me  or  mine."  He  snatched  the  dripping  animal  to  his  bosom, 
and,  amongst  other  endearing  epithets,  called  it  his  only  friend.  Ever  after, 
Jack  and  I  were  intimate  acquaintances ;  not  so  Neptune  and  the  black  cur : 
the  latter  never  forgot  his  obligations;  but  Neptune  only  returned  the  humble 
caresses  of  the  little  creature  by  a  slight  movement  of  his  stately  tail,  or  a 
casting  down  of  his  small  dark  eye,  as  well  as  to  say,  "  I  see  you !" 

Still  there  was  something  about  "  Jack  the  Shrimp,"  I,  notwithstanding  my 
most  persevering  curiosity,  could  never  make  out ;  his  mornings,  from  the 
earliest  dawn,  in  fair  or  foul  weather,  were  employed  in  catching  the  unwary 
fish ;  at  mid-day  he  attended  his  several  customers,  and  in  the  evenings  he  again 
repaired  to  his  haunts  among  the  wild  birds,  and  amid  the  ocean  spray :  his 
general  place  of  repose  was  a  hollow  rock,  called  the  OTTER'S-HOLE  ;  and  there 
he  used  to  eat  his  lonely  meal,  and  share  his  straw  bed,  at  night,  with  his  faithful 
dog.  I  saw  him  one  morning,  as  usual,  poking  after  shrimps,  and  was  struck  by 
the  anxiety  and  energy  of  his  movements ;  notwithstanding  his  seeming  employ- 
ment, he  was  intensely  watching  every  sail  that  appeared  on  the  blue  waters: 
when  he  saw  me,  he  rapidly  approached. 

"  The  top  of  the  morning  to  ye,  young  lady,  and  may  every  sunrise  increase 
yer  happiness !" 

"  Thank  ye,  Jack;  have  you  caught  many  shrimps  this  morning?" 

"  Yarra  no,  my  lannan — sorra  a  many. — Ye  wouldn't  have  much  company  at 
the  big  house  to-day  ?" 

"  I  believe  we  expect  some  friends." 

"  Ye  wouldn't  know  their  names  ?"  he  inquired,  looking  at  me,  while  his  sunken 
eyes  sparkled  with  feelings  which  I  could  not  understand. 

"  Some,  Jack,  I  know — Mr.  Amble,  and  Mr.  Cawthorne,  and  Father  Mike, 
and  the  rector." 

"  Any  of  the  red-coat  officers  from  Duncannon,  agra  ?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?"  he  continued,  peering  earnestly  into  my  face ;  "  ye  wouldn't, 
sure  ye  wouldn't,  tell  a  lie  to  poor  ould  Jack,  Miss,  darlint,— you,  whom  he'd  go 
tin  pilgrimages  to  sarve,  if  ye  were  to  die  to-morrow — you,  who  have  so  often 
spoken  kindly  to  him,  when  yer  voice  fell  on  his  ear  like  the  song  of  a  mermaid 
— sure  ye  wouldn't  desave  me,  mavourneen  /" 

"  Indeed,  Jack,  there  is  no  reason  to  deceive  you  on  the  subject — the  matter 
cannot  concern  you ;  but,  to  make  your  mind  perfectly  easy,  I  will  ask  the  house- 
keeper ;  she  knows  who  are  expected,  and  I  will  let  you  know  when  you  bring 
the  lobsters  to  the  house." 

"God  bless  ye,  and  God  help  yer  innocent  head! — sure  d'ye  think  I'm  such 


JACK  THE  SHRIMP.  115 

an  ould  fool  entirely  as  to  be  bothering  myself  about  what 's  no  business  of  mine? 
— may-be,  like  the  rest,  ye  think  me  a  natural?" 

His  lip  curled  in  bitter  scorn  as  he  uttered  the  last  sentence,  and  his  eyes 
grew  brightly  dark  under  the  shadows  of  his  beetle  brows.  After  a  moment's 
pause  he  continued,  "  Ax  the  master  himself,  dear — ax  the  master  if  any  of 
the  officers  are  to  be  wid  ye ;  the  housekeeper  won't  know — that  she  won't ; 
just  ax  the  master  who 's  to  dine  wid  ye  to-day,  particular  about  the  officers ; — 
but  don't,  Miss,  darlint,  don't  say  I  bid  ye ;  ye  don't  know  what  harm  might 
come  of  it,  if  ye  did — it  might  cost  me  my  life ;  besides,  it  would  demean  ye  to 
turn  informer.  Now,  Miss,  machree, — young  as  ye  are,  ye  're  the  only  one 
about  the  big  house  I  'd  trust  wid  that ;  and  so  God  be  wid  ye,  I  depind  on  your 
honour."  I  was  ten  years  old,  and  it  was  a  glorious  thing  to  think  that  a 
secret  (although  I  hardly  knew  in  what  the  secret  consisted),  was  in  my  keep- 
ing, and  it  was  still  more  glorious  to  be  told  that  my  honour  was  depended  on. 
Jack  was,  moreover,  a  favourite  with  the  household,  and  I  had  never  been  for- 
bidden to  speak  to  him.  Grandmamma  and  mamma  were,  I  knew,  busied  with 
the  housekeeper  in  the  preparation  of  jellies  and  pasties,  in  the  manufacture  of 
which,  adhering  to  the  fashion  of  the  good  old  times,  they  themselves  assisted, 
at  those  periods  of  bustle  and  confusion  in  country-houses  called  company-days. 
I  was  consequently  aware  that  I  should  hardly  see  them  until  dressed  for  the 
drawing-room.  During  my  conversation  with  Jack,  my  biped  attendant,  Nelly 
Parrell,  had  been  busily  employed  in  packing  up  my  bathing-dress,  and  locking 
"  the  box  ;"  so  she  knew  nothing  of  Jack's  anxiety.  I  saw  the  old  man  watch 
me  attentively,  until  I  ascended  the  upper  cliff*  on  my  way  home,  and  then  he 
returned  to  his  occupation.  I  did  not  fail  to  ask  my  grandfather,  at  the  break- 
fast-table, if  he  expected  any  of  the  officers  from  Duncannon  to  dinner,  that 
day  ?  The  kind  man  laid  down  "  the  Waterford  Chronicle,"  which  he  was  perus- 
ing, and,  smiling  one  of  those  sweet  and  playful  smiles  that  tell,  more  than 
words  can  do,  of  peace  and  cheerfulness,  inquired,  in  his  turn,  if  "  my  head  was 
beginning  to  think  about  officers  already  ?"  I  was  old  enough  to  blush  at  this, 
but  returned  to  my  point,  and  was  told  that  none  had  been  invited.  Soon 
after,  I  saw  Jack,  and  little  Crab,  the  one  striding,  the  other  trotting,  down  the 
avenue  ;  as  he  passed  the  open  casement  he  stopped,  and  I  told  him  that  grand- 
papa did  not  expect  any  of  the  Duncannon  officers ;  the  old  man  crossed  his 
forehead,  and  muttered — as  he  reverently  bowed,  and  passed  to  the  kitchen 
offices—"  May  heaven  be  yer  bed  at  the  last,  and  may  ye  niver  know  either 
sin  or  sorrow !" 

Poor  Jack !  I  have  often  since  thought  of  his  benediction.  Dinner  was  at 
last  over,  and  dessert  fairly  placed  upon  the  table,  when  horses'  feet  were  heard 
clattering  in  the  court-yard;  and,  in  a  few  seconds,  the  servant  announced 
the  captain  of  the  detachment  of  a  regiment  then  quartered  at  Duncannon ;  a 
gentleman  who  accompanied  him,  but  who  was  not  announced,  entered  at  the 
same  time ;  he  was  a  gigantic,  gloomy,  harsh-looking  man ;  and  when  the  ser- 
vant retired,  the  officer  introduced  him  as  Mr.  Loflbnt,  the  new  chief  of  the 


116  JACK  THE  SHRIMP. 

Fethard  and  Duncannon  police.  This  man  was  universally  disliked  in  the 
country,  and  Captain  Gore  knew  it  well ;  he,  in  some  measure,  apologized  for 
the  intrusion  of  both,  by  stating  he  had  been  that  morning  called  upon,  by  Mr. 
Loffbnt,  to  give  assistance  to  the  police  in  a  rencontre  with  the  smugglers, 
which  was  that  night  expected  on  our  side  the  coast:  this  was,  I  believe 
unwelcome  intelligence  to  all,  but  to  none  more  than  myself;  an  undefined  dread 
of  some  evil  that  might  happen  to  my  poor  friend,  the  shrimp-gatherer,  took 
possession  of  my  mind ;  and,  to  the  astonishment  of  my  good  grandmother,  even 
my  strawberries  were  untasted.  I  have  since  learned  that,  when  the  ladies  with- 
drew, Captain  Gore  informed  the  company  that  he  expected  some  of  his  men 
to  meet  them  at  the  termination  of  our  oak  belting ;  and,  he  added,  "  he  was 
convinced  Mr.  Herriott  would  render  every  assistance  to  the  king's  servants  in 
such  a  cause."  Mr.  Herriott  was  peaceably  inclined,  and  only  agreed  to  go  to 
the  beach  with  the  soldiers,  because  he  thought  it  likely  he  might  act  as  a  media- 
tor between  the  parties.  Well  do  I  remember  the  breathless  anxiety  with  which 
I  watched  for  his  passing  through  the  entrance-hall,  for  I  longed  to  speak  to  him 
— but  it  was  useless  ;  he  did  not  come  out  till  near  midnight,  and  then  he  was 
surrounded  by  gentlemen,  who  whispered  in  an  under-tone ;  at  last,  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  I  heard  the  old  butler  ordered  to  bring  the  long  double- 
barrelled  gun.  The  company  departed,  and  I  seated  myself  in  the  nursery 
window,  which  overlooked  the  beautiful  plantations,  and  the  distant  sea  that  was 
tranquilly  reposing  in  the  beams  of  the  full  moon. 

Slowly  and  stealthily  did  the  party  proceed  to  the  shore ;  and  they  stole  in 
silence,  and  in  safety,  upon  the  unfortunate  smugglers,  who  were,  at  the  time, 
landing  their  cargo  at  the  entrance  to  the  OTTER'S-HOLE.  A  few  peasants 
were  waiting,  with  empty  cars,  to  convey  away  their  purchases ;  and  the  gang 
was,  evidently,  unprepared  for  the  attack;  neither  party,  however,  wanted 
courage;  and  they  fought,  man  to  man,  with  desperate  resolution.  Loffbnt 
was  foremost  in  the  fray ;  youth,  age,  and  manhood  alike  felt  the  overpowering 
force  of  his  muscular  arm,  or  the  unerring  ball  of  his  pistol.  Silently  and 
darkly  did  he  fight,  more  like  a  destroying  spirit  than  a  mortal  man.  At 
length,  in  the  midst  of  a  combat  that  had  given  him  more  than  usual  trouble, 
for  he  had  engaged  with  a  young  and  daring  antagonist,  he  was  arrested  by  a 
harsh,  growling  voice,  like  the  deep  but  murmured  anger  of  an  African  lion ; 
and  his  arm  was  grasped  by  long,  bony  fingers,  that  seemed  the  outcasts  of  the 
grave.  "  And  you  're  here  ! — you,  who  crushed  my  brave,  my  eldest  boy ;  who 
seduced,  from  her  innocent  home,  my  Kathleen — my  daughter — my  dear,  dear 
girl ; — you,  who  drove  us  to  wandering  and  want !  Stand  back,  James — drop 
yer  hoult  of  my  only  living  child,  ye  hell-fiend !"  continued  the  agonized  old 
man,  as  he  shook  the  huge  frame  of  Lofibnt,  even  as  a  willow-wand ;  "  once 
before,  when  my  other  boy  was  murdered,  I  struggled  with  ye  for  his  life, 
and  ye  cast  me  from  ye,  as  an  ould  tree : — but  now !" — his  eyes  glared  fear- 
fully upon  his  victim,  and,  for  a  moment,  smugglers  and  soldiers  remained  silent 
and  motionless.  LolTont  trembled  in  every  limb ;  he  felt  as  if  his  hour  was 


JACK    THE   SHRIMP.  117 

come,  and,  turning  from  the  shrimp-gatherer,  he  said,  "  Pass  on,  John  Doherty ; 
enough  of  your,  blood  is  already  on  my  head."  The  old  man  replied  not,  but 
closed  upon  the  revenue-officer.  Long  and  desperate  was  the  struggle — hand 
to  hand,  foot  to  foot — until,  as  they  neared  the  overhanging  edge  of  the  pre- 
cipitous cliff,  the  shrimp-gatherer  grappled  the  throat  of  his  adversary ;  one  step 
more — and  both  went  crashing  against  the  pointed  rocks,  until  the  deep  heavy 
splash  in  the  ocean  announced  that  the  contest  was  over. 

Speedy  relief  was  afforded,  and  they  were  both  dragged  out  of  the  water, 
still  clasped,  as  in  the  death-struggle!  Loffont,  his  harsh  and  demon-like 
features  blackened  and  swollen  by  suffocation,  was  indeed  a  corpse ;  and, 
although  Doherty  was  living,  and  in  full  possession  of  his  faculties,  it  was 
evident  his  spirit  was  on  the  wing.  Still  did  he  grasp  his  antagonist's  throat ; 
and,  even  when  besought  by  my  grandfather  to  relax  his  hold,  he  raised  him- 
self slowly  on  his  elbow,  and  turned  a  steady  gaze  upon  the  features  of  one  he 
had  hated  even  unto  death.  His  son  knelt  by  his  side,  his  heart  full,  almost 
to  bursting.  In  the  meantime,  the  contest  between  the  soldiery  and  the  people 
was  renewed,  and  every  inch  of  cliff  vigorously  disputed. 

"  James,"  said  the  dying  man,  as  his  glazed  eye  followed  the  bloody  contest, 
upon  which  the  full  moon  cast  her  bright  and  tranquil  beams — M  James — the 
boat — the  boat — gain  the  ship !  My  murdered  children  now  can  rest  in  their 
graves — their  murderer  is  punished." 

"  Jack,"  interrupted  the  kind-hearted  gentleman,  "  for  God's  sake,  think  of  the 
few  moments  you  have  to  live — think  of  where  you  are  going." 

"  Ay,  sir,  if  God  would  spare  me  to  make  my  soul,  now  I  might  think  and 
pray  to  him  ; — but  before — could  I  think  of  any  but  them  who  are  in  heaven  ? 
Now  God — God  have  mercy  on  a  poor  sinful  ma^i !  His  hands  were  clenched 
in  prayer,  when  a  loud  shout  from  the  peasantry,  which  was  repeated  by  a 
thousand  echoes  along  the  rocky  shore,  announced  that  they  had  beaten  their 
opponents  fairly  off;  the  old  man  started — waved  his  hands  wildly  over  his 
head,  as  in  triumph — fell  back — and  expired  on  his  son's  bosom. 

The  smugglers  escaped  to  the  vessel,  and  the  youth  bore  off  to  it  the  dead 
body  of  his  father.  The  ship's  crew  and  the  peasantry  disappeared,  as  if  by 
magic,  carrying  with  them  as  much  of  the  brandy  and  tobacco  as  had  been 
landed,  for  they  knew  that  the  police  would  shortly  return  with  a  reinforcement  ; 
and  in  one  or  two  moments  Mr.  Herriott  found  himself  alone  with  the  corpse  of 
Loffont,  on  the  wild  sea-shore  ; — not  quite  alone,  I  should  say ;  the  dog  of  the 
shrimp-gatherer,  poor  Crab,  came  smelling  to  the  strand  where  his  master's 
body  had  lain,  raised  his  little  voice  in  weak  and  pitiful  howlings  to  the  receding 
barque,  and  finally  laid  himself  down  at  the  feet  of  the  watchful  Neptune,  who 
had  never  deserted  his  master's  side.  From  that  hour,  the  noble  animal  became 
the  protector  of  the  low-born  cur — never  suffering  him  to  receive  either  insuk 
or  injury. 

The  body  of  the  wretched  Loffont,  who  had  met  with  so  shocking  a  death, 
was  conveyed  to  our  house;  it  was  buried — but  few  attended  the  funeral, 


118  JACK  THE  SHRIMP. 

which  in  Ireland  is  always  a  mark  of  disrespect.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered 
at,  for  the  history  of  poor  Jack  became  generally  known :  he  had  once  a  home, 
and  all  the  joys  which  home  can  give;— a  wife,  two  sons,  and  one  lovely 
daughter,  the  pride  of  her  father's  life,  and  of  her  native  village.  She  was 
seduced  by  Loffont,  under  the  promise  of  honourable  union — but  she  could 
not  survive  her  disgrace — her  heart  broke  !  She  was  found,  one  morning,  a 
stiffened  corpse,  at  her  father's  door,  with  a  snow-shroud  for  her  covering,  and 
the  cold  ice  of  December  for  her  bed.  Then  it  was  that  her  mother  quietly 
and  calmly  laid  down  and  died;  the  fountain  of  her  tears  had  dried — her 
heart  withered  within  her  bosom. 

The  husband  and  father,  thus  rendered  wild  and  desolate,  became  a  man  of 
desperate  fortunes,  and  swore  that  nothing  but  blood  should  wash  out  the 
memory  of  his  daughter's  shame.  He  joined  a  party  of  smugglers,  with  his 
eldest  boy,  whom,  in  an  engagement  with  the  police,  he  saw  shot  and  stabbed  by 
the  same  hand  that  had  brought  sin  and  death  to  his  once  happy  dwelling.  He 
was  himself  s"o  much  injured  in  this  engagement,  as  to  be  unable  to  remain  at 
sea ;  so  he  wandered  along  the  sea-shore,  watching  the  movements  of  the  officers 
stationed  on  the  preventive  service,  and  directing  those  of  the  smuggling  vessel 
in  which  his  younger  son  had  embarked.  This  will  account  for  the  great  anxiety 
he  had  manifested  to  ascertain  who  was  to  dine  at  our  house  on  that  eventful 
day — dreading,  doubtless,  that  the  officers  were  on  the  lookout  for  the  expected 
ship.  He  could  not  have  known  that  Loffont  was  so  near  his  usual  haunts;  for 
he  would  have  stopped  at  nothing  to  shed  his  blood. 

******** 

This  story  was  brought  to  my  remembrance,  many  years  afterwards,  when  I 
visited  the  old  churchyard  of  Bannow,  in  which  the  remains  of  that  "  bad  man" 
were  interred.  The  church  is  of  very  remote  antiquity,  and  it  overlooks  a 
singular  scene — the  "Irish  Herculaneurn"— a  town  buried  beneath  the  sand. 
In  the  interior,  among  broken  walls,  are  the  remains  of  several  tombs,  which 
retain  abundant  evidence  of  "  long-ago  magnificence" — sculptured  slabs  and 
stone  coffins ;  and  among  them  are  monuments  to  the  memory  of  the  good,  and 
upright,  and  benevolent — of,  comparatively,  yesterday.  To  me  the  spot  is  sacred ; 
it  contains  the  ashes  of  nearly  all  my  relatives  and  friends. 

Alas !  if,  in  after  life,  we  revisit  the  scenes  of  our  childhood,  where  shall  we 
look  for  those  who  are  dear  to  our  hearts  and  memories  ?  In  the  churchyard ! 

The  grave  of  Loffont,  to  which  my  story  has  reference — rather  than  to  those 
of  characters  far  opposite — was  pointed  out  to  me  by  the  widow  Parrell — my 
old  bathing-woman — as  one  upon  which,  for  a  long  time,  "grass  would  not  grow." 
"  I  've  seen,"  she  said,  "  many  a  fine  funeral  within  these  ancient  walls :  I 
remember  that  of  the  ould  Master  of  Graige  House ;  and  well  I  mind  your  own 
grandmother's— the  heavens  be  her  bed  !  And  the  hundreds  that  followed  her, 
though  an  Englishwoman,  to  her  grave — the  hundreds !  besides  three  priests, 
and  three  ministers ;  and  then  her  husband !  And  beautiful  are  the  words  he 
had  carved  upon  that  square  flat  tomb,  to  her  memory ;  then  the  ould  lady,  his 


JACK  THE  SHRIMP.  119 

sister,  all  in  the  same  big  vault — ah,  yah ! — the  fine  place  went  into  other  hands ; 
and,  if  it  was  to  pass,  sure,  better  relations  and  neighbours  than  strangers — the 
old  name  reigns  over  it  again — the  old  stock,  still! — Wisha!  wisha!"  she 
exclaimed,  rubbing  her  finger  across  her  sallow  brow,  and  then  plucking  tufts 
of  maiden  hair  out  of  the  old  walls; — "it  bothers  one  to  think  how  often  that 
tomb  has  been  opened  ! — Well,  the  Lord  above  grant  it  may  not  be  opened  for 
a  very  long  time."  When  I  was  young,  I  took  great  delight  in  wandering  about 
these  old  tombs;  and,  even  when  Loffont  was  killed,  I  remember  I'd  as  soon  go 
into  a  graveyard,  as  into  a  flower-garden.  "  Death  seems  so  far  off  then,  that 
it 's  no  trouble  to  think  of  it — it 's  like  the  wave  we  see  rolling  betwixt  the  two 
Keeroes :  we  never  heed  its  size  till  it 's  almost  at  the  shore ;  but  now,  I  don't 
care  if  I  never  cross  the  walls — barring  to  look  at  that  tomb  of  ould  French — 
that 's  a  consolation — a  hundred  and  forty  years  is  on  the  tomb — more  says  it 's 
a  hundred  and  four,  but  I  don't  see  why  a  body  mayn't  as  well  live  to  be  the  one 
as  the  other."  The  poor  woman  seemed  to  derive  consolation  from  this  reflec- 
tion, and  added,  "  What  a  pity  it  was  that  Jack  the  Shrimp  died  so  soon !  he  'd 
be  sure  to  have  made  ould  bones,  and  had  a  fine  funeral  if  he  'd  only  have  waited 
for  it,  as  he  might,  and  no  harm."  Many  stories  she  told  me  of  those  who  lie 
beneath  that  green  turf;  and  now,  she  herself  rests  there — one  of  the  last  who, 
in  her  lifetime,  companioned  poor  Jack  the  Shrimp. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LINE. 


N  a  tranquil  evening,  in  the  sweet  summer-month  of 
June,  a  lady  of  no  ordinary  appearance  sat  at  an  open 
casement  of  many-coloured  glass,  and  overlooked  a 
wild,  but  singularly  beautiful,  country.  From  the 
window,  a  flight  of  steep  stone  steps  led  to  a  narrow 
terrace,  that,  in  former  times,  had  been  carefully 
guarded  by  high  parapets  of  rudely-carved  granite; 
but  they  had  fallen  to  decay,  and  lay  in  mouldering 
heaps  on  the  shrubby  bank,  which  ran  almost  perpen- 
dicularly to  a  rapid  stream  that  danced  like  a  sunny 
spirit  through  the  green  meadows,  dotted  and  animated 
with  sheep  and  their  sportive  lambs.  In  the  distance, 
rude  and  rugged  mountains  towered  in  native  dignity, 
"  high  in  air,"  their  grim  and  sterile  appearance  form- 
ing an  extraordinary,  but  not  unpleasing,  contrast  to 
the  pure  and  happy-looking  valley  at  their  base,  where, 

(120) 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  LINE.  121 

however,  a  few  dingy  peasant-cottages  lay  thinly  scattered,  injuring,  rather 
than  enlivening,  a  scene  that  nature  had  done  much  to  adorn,  and  man  nothing 
to  preserve.  Half  way  up  the  nearest  mountain,  a  little  chapel,  dedicated  to 
•'  our  Lady  of  Grace,"  hung,  like  a  wren's  nest,  on  what  seemed  a  point  of  rock ; 
but  even  its  rustic  cross  was  invisible  from  the  antique  casement.  Often  and 
anxiously  did  the  lady  watch  the  distant  figures  who  trod  the  hill-side  towards 
the  holy  place,  to  perform  some  act  of  penance  or  devotion. 

It  was  impossible  to  look  on  that  interesting  woman  without  affection ;  one 
might  have  almost  thought  her  destined — 

"  To  come  like  truth,  and  disappear  like  dreams." 

Though  she  was  young,  there  was  much  of  the  dignity  of  silent  sorrow  in  her 
aspect ;  and  it  was  difficult  to  converse  with  her,  without  feeling  her  influence, 
— not  to  overpower,  but  to  soften.  Her  form  was  slight,  but  rounded  to  the 
most  perfect  symmetry,  and  an  extraordinary  quantity  of  hair,  black  as  the 
raven's  wing,  was  braided,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  other  lands,  over  a 
high  and  well-formed  brow ;  although,  such  was  the  style  of  the  time,  she  wore 
no  head-dress,  except  what  nature  had  bestowed ;  a  golden  rosary,  and  cross  of 
the  same  metal,  gemmed  with  many  precious  jewels,  hung  over  a  harp-stand  of 
antique  workmanship ;  a  few  of  the  strings  of  the  harp  were  broken,  and  a  pile 
of  richly-bound  music  gave  no  token  of  being  often  disturbed.  Silken  Ottomans, 
gilded  vases,  fresh-gathered  flowers,  and  a  long  embroidered  sofa,  filled  up, 
almost  to  crowding,  the  small  apartment.  In  a  little  recess,  opposite  the  window, 
a  child's  couch  was  fitted  with  much  taste  and  care ;  the  hangings  were  of  blue 
damask,  curiously  inwrought  with  silver,  such  as  the  nuns  in  France  and  Flanders 
delight  to  emboss ;  there  was  also  a  loose  coverlet  of  the  same  material,  and  a 
tasseled  oblong  cushion  at  either  end.  I  have  said  that  the  lady  was  seated  at 
the  casement ;  sometimes  she  pressed  her  small  white  fingers  to  her  brow,  and 
then  passed  them  over  its  rounded  surface,  as  if  to  dispel,  by  that  simple  move- 
ment, thoughts,  "  the  unbidden  guests  of  anxious  hours ;" — but  still  it  was  only 
for  a  moment  her  gaze  was  turned  from  her  best  treasure,  her  only  child ;  her 
eye  followed  it  as,  in  its  nurse's  arms,  it  enjoyed  the  evening  breeze  that  played 
amid  its  light  and  clustering  hair ;  the  baby  had  blue  eyes  and  a  fair  skin ;  and 
if  it  sometimes,  in  the  infantine  seriousness  that  passed  as  airy  shadows  over  a 
smiling  landscape,  resembled  its  mother,  now,  as  it  laughed  and  shouted,  in 
broken  accents,  "  Mamma !  mamma !"  she  thought  how  like  its  father  it  spoke 
and  looked.  Clavis  Abbey — as  the  strange  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern 
building,  inhabited  by  the  household  of  Sir  John  Clavis,  was  called — was  wisely 
situated.  The  monks  of  old  always  choose  happily  for  their  monasteries ;  the 
sites  of  their  ruined  aisles  tell  of  the  good  taste,  as  well  as  good  sense,  of  their 
projectors.  Hill,  wood,  and  water,  were  even  in  their  neighbourhood,  and  the 
red  deer  and  salmon  were  always  near,  to  contribute  to  their  repast. 

But  the  fair  possessions  had,  nearly  two   centuries  before  our  tale  com- 
mences, passed  from  the  hands  of  holy  Mother  Church.     The  marvellous  tale 
16 


122  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE. 

of  its  exchange  of  masters  is  still  often  repeated,  and  always  credited ;  it  is 
said  and  believed  that  the  stream,  which  runs  through  the  valley  I  have 
described,  is,  every  midsummer-night,  of  a  deep-red  hue,  in  mysterious  com- 
memoration of  the  massacre  of  the  priests  of  that  abbey,  which  took  place 
as  late  as  the  Elizabethan  reign.  Certain  it  is  that  the  projector  of  such 
indiscriminate  slaughter  never  reaped  the  rich  harvest  he  anticipated  ;  for, 
unable  from  severe  illness  to  visit  the  court  of  the  maiden  queen,  he  despatched 
his  son's  tutor  on  the  missio'n,  with  communications  of  the  services  he  had 
rendered  to  the  state,  and  a  petition  for  a  grant  of  the  lands  he  had  rescued 
from  "  popery."  The  tutor,  however,  made  himself  so  agreeable  to  the  royal 
lady,  that  she  either  was,  or  affected  to  be,  severely  angered  by  the  unnecessary 
effusion  of  blood ;  and,  so  far  from  approving,  testified  her  displeasure,  and 
bestowed  the  fair  lands  of  the  murdered  monks  upon  Oliver  Clavis,  the  false, 
but  handsome,  accessary  of  the  priest-slayer.  But  no  family  could  take  pos- 
session of  consecrated  ground  in  Ireland,  without  falling  under  the  ban  of 
both  church  and  people ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  bland  and  liberal  conduct  of 
the  new  owner  of  the  estate,  then  called  Clavis  Abbey,  Oliver  lived  and  died 
unpopular.  Tradition  says  that  none  of  the  heirs  male  of  the  family  ever 
departed  peaceably  in  their  beds,  and  much  learned  and  unlearned  lore  is  still 
extant  upon  the  subject. 

Somewhat  about  the  year  1782,  Sir  John  Clavis  entered  upon  his  title 
and  property,  in  consequence  of  the  sudden  demise  of  his  father,  Sir  Henry, 
who  was  drowned  on  a  moonshiny  night,  when  the  air  and  the  sea  were  calm, 
and  he  was  returning  from  an  excursion  to  one  of  those  fairy  islands  that  at 
once  beautify  and  render  dangerous  the  Irish  coast.  The  people  who  accom- 
panied him,  on  that  last  day  of  his  existence,  say  that  he  had  been  in  unusual 
health  and  spirits  during  the  morning,  and  had  fished,  and  sung,  and  drank  as 
usual — that  as  the  night  advanced  he  became  reserved  and  gloomy,  and  as  they 
neared  the  coast,  insisted  on  taking  the  helm  —  that,  suddenly  yielding  the 
guidance  of  his  little  vessel,  he  sprang  overboard — that  immediately  the  crew 
crowded  to  save  him,  but  a  black  cloud  descended  on  the  waters,  and  hid  his 
form  from  their  eyes,  and  it  was  not  until  the  boat  had  driven  an  entire  mile 
(as  well  as  they  could  calculate)  from  the  spot,  they  were  enabled  to  behold 
the  sea  and  the  sky.  Some  laughed,  some  surmised,  but  many  credited  the 
tale ;  for  superstition  had  hardly,  at  that  period,  resigned  any  of  her  strongholds ; 
and  the  peasantry  to  this  day,  believe  that  Sir  Henry  Clavis  acted  under  the 
influence  of  a  spirit-guide,  that  had  lured  him  to  sudden  death,  conformably 
with  the  old  prophecy — 

"The  party  shall  fail  by  Clavis  led, 

And  none  of  the  name  shall  die  in  their  bed." 

Sir  John  had  just  completed  his  college  course  when  he  was  called  upon 
to  support  the  honours  of  his  house  and  name.  At  Trinity  he  was  considered 
more  as  an  amiable,  gentlemanly  young  man,  than  an  esprit  fort,  or  one  likely 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   LINE.  123 

to  lead  in  public  life.  At  that  period  the  college  lads  were  a  very  different 
set  of  youths  from  what  they  are  at  present.  The  rude  but  generous  hospi- 
tality, the  thoughtless  daring,  the  angry  politics,  the  feudal  feeling,  that  charac- 
terized the  gentry  of  the  time,  were  not  likely  to  send  forth  subjects  submissive 
to  college  rule  ;  and  the  citizens  of  Dublin  were  too  often  insulted  and  aggrieved 
by  the  insolent  aristocratic  airs  of  unfledged  boys,  ripe  for  mischief,  who, 
half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  sported  with  their  comforts,  and  often  with  their 
lives.  Party  feeling,  also,  ran  (as  unhappily  there  it  always  does)  to  a  dreadful 
height ;  and  the  young  baronet,  whose  father  had  invariably  drank  "  The 
Glorious  Memory,"  and  "  Protestant  Ascendancy,"  every  day  after  dinner,  was 
frequently  called  upon  to  defend  or  support  his  party,  although  he  invariably 
declared  that  as  yet  he  was  of  none — that  he  must  wait  to  make  up  his  mind> 
&c.  &c.  It  must  be  confessed  that  this  extraordinary  irresolution,  at  such  a 
period,  was  more  the  effect  of  constitutional  apathy  than  of  reflection ;  he  had 
a  good  deal  of  the  consciousness  of  birth  and  wealth  about  him,  but  he 
disliked  either  mental  or  bodily  exertion.  As  an  only  child,  he  had  suffered 
nothing  like  contradiction ;  and  had  he  horsewhipped  and  abused  his  servants 
(when  at  the  age  of  twelve,  he  sported  two  of  his  own  racers  at  the  Curragh 
of  Kildare),  instead  of  speaking  to  them  as  fellow-creatures  in  a  mild  and 
kindly  voice,  it  would  have  elicited  no  rebuke  from  his  father,  who  secretly 
regretted  that  the  youth  was  neither  likely  to  become  a  five-bottle  man,  a 
staunch  Orangeman,  nor  a  member  of  Parliament  —  the  only  three  things  he 
considered  worth  living  for. 

The  young  baronet  never  could  have  resolved  upon  visiting  the  Continent 
— an  exploit  he  had  long  talked  of — but  that  an  anticipated  general  election 
frightened  him  away,  as  he  would  certainly,  if  at  home,  have  been  expected 
to  offer  himself  as  a  candidate,  and  make  speeches.  He  hated  trouble,  and  of 
the  two  exertions  chose  the  least — committed  his  affairs,  for  twelve  calendar 
months,  to  the  management  of  Denny  Dacey,  his  nurse's  son,  who  had  acted, 
sa'tisfactorily,  as  steward,  since  the  second  childhood  of  the  old  and  respected 
man  who  had  for  sixty  years  filled  the  situation ;  and  left  the  Abbey,  attended 
by  only  two  servants  and  one  travelling-carriage.  This  was  a  matter  of  sur- 
prise and  conversation  to  many,  more  particularly  as  Sir  Henry  and  his  neigh- 
bour, Mr.  Dorncliff,  a  Cromwellian  settler,  had  arranged  that  their  children 
should  be  united,  when  of  sufficient  age.  Miss  Dorncliff  was  handsome,  and  an 
heiress,  and,  it  was  said,  in  no  degree  averse  to  the  union ;  they  had  been  com- 
panions in  childhood,  but  the  lady,  it  would  appear,  was  of  too  unromantic  a 
disposition  to  remove  the  young  baronet's  indifference.  As  his  carriage  rolled 
past  the  avenue  that  led  to  her  dwelling,  he  merely  leaned  forward,  and  cast  a 
fleeting  glance  towards  the  house.  Where  he  met,  and  to  what  precise  circum- 
stance he  owed  the  possession  of  so  lovely  a  wife  as  the  lady  I  have  endeavoured 
to  describe,  is  still  a  mystery ;  his  business-letters  conveyed  no  intelligence  of 
his  marriage ;  nor  was  it  until  the  arrival  of  gay  furniture,  from  a  fashionable 


134  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LllfE. 

Dublin  upholsterer,  that  the  idea  of  such  an  event  occurred  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Claris. 

When  the  baronet  returned,  and  announced,  as  his  lady,  her  who  leaned  upon 
his  arm ;  when  the  domestics  received  her  with  that  warm-hearted  and  affec- 
tionate respect  for  which  Irish  servants  are  so  justly  celebrated ;  and  when 
the  rumour  went  abroad  that  Sir  John  Clavis  had  married  a  Spanish  lady,  a 
Catholic,  and  "  one  who  had  little  more  English  than  a  Kerry-man,"  great  was 
the  consternation,  and  many  and  various  the  conjectures.  "  What  will  become 
of  the  '  Protestant  Ascendancy,'  and  the  '  Glorious  and  Immortal  Memory,'  now 
that  a  popish  mistress  is  come  to  Clavis  ?"  said  one  party.  "  Some  chance  of 
luck  and  grace  turning  to  the  ould  Abbey,  now  that  the  right  sort's  in  it," 
observed  the  other.  Not  a  few  affirmed  that  the  lady  had  absconded  from  a 
convent ;  others  asserted  that  she  was  picked  off,  with  a  few  other  survivors,  from 
a  wrecked  vessel  in  the  Mediterranean ;  those  who  had  not  seen  her,  whispered 
that  she  was  no  better  than  she  should  be ;  but  Miss  Dorncliff— who,  at  first, 
perhaps,  to  show  she  was  heart-whole,  and  afterwards  from  real  regard,  was 
often  Lady  Clavis's  guest — generously  declared  that  she  was  the  most  charming 
woman  she  had  ever  met,  that  she  was  highly  accomplished,  and,  although  a 
Catholic  and  a  Spaniard,  anything  but  a  bigot. 

Her  want  of  knowledge  of  the  language,  when  she  arrived,  prevented  her 
joining  in  conversation  either  with  those  who  visited  her,  or  those  at  whose 
houses  she  was  received.  Perfectly  unconscious  of  the  rules  and  etiquette  of 
society  in  our  colder  regions,  she  was  sure  to  commit  some  grievous  fault  in 
the  arrangement  of  her  guests,  which  invariably  threw  her  husband  into  an  ill 
temper,  that,  after  the  honey-moon  was  over,  he  seldom  thought  it  necessary  to 
conceal.  Sir  John  had  shaken  off  a  good  deal  of  his  ennui  by  journeying ;  and 
when  he  came  home  he  no  longer  stood  on  neutral  ground,  but  suffered  the 
excitement  of  politics  to  take  the  place  of  that  which  is  the  accompaniment  of 
travelling.  He  had  now  discovered  that,  for  the  honour  of  the  house,  it  was 
necessary  he  should  adopt  his  father's  side  of  the  question ;  and  accordingly  fhe 
gardener  was  ordered  to  fill  the  flower-beds  with  orange  lilies,  and  the  hangings 
of  the  spare  rooms  were  garnished  with  orange  bindings.  Unfortunately,  the 
members  of  an  Orange  Lodge  were  invited  to  dine  at  the  Abbey,  and  Lady 
Clavis  positively  refused  to  wear  their  colour,  in  any  way,  because  she  considered 
it  as  the  symbol  of  persecution  to  the  Catholic  religion,  of  which  she  was  a 
devout  and  faithful  member.  When  her  husband,  after  much  contention,  gave 
up  the  point,  she  ordered  a  green  velvet  dress  for  the  occasion,  embroidered 
with  golden  shamrocks;  she  did  this  with  a  view  to  gratify  him,  never  imagin- 
ing that  the  colour  which  emblems  the  beauty  and  fertility  of  Ireland,  could 
be  obnoxious  to  any  body  of  Irishmen.  What,  then,  was  her  astonishment, 
when  he,  whom  she  had  been  so  anxious  to  please,  expressed  a  most  angry 
opinion  of  her  costume — which  occasioned  a  flood  of  tears  from  one  party,  and 
from  the  other,  an  over  hastily  expressed  desire  that,  as  she  could  never  under- 
stand the  customs  of  the  country,  she  would  give  up  trying  to  do  so.  Matri- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE.  125 

monial  disputes  are  dreadfully  uninteresting  in  the  recital, — not  entertaining 
as  are  lovers'  quarrels,  simply  because  there  is  no  danger  of  a  heart-breaking 
separation  arising  from  them;  it  is  only  the  two  engaged  in  those  unhappy 
differences  that  can  understand  their  bitterness ;  the  world  has,  for  them,  but 
little  sympathy.  Enough,  then  be  it,  that  the  innocent  green  velvet  was  the 
commencement  of  much  real  disagreement :  the  lady  insisting  that  she  had  the 
dress  made  as  a  compliment  to  his  party ;  the  gentleman  protesting  that  it  could 
not  be  so,  as  green  was  always  opposed  to  orange.  This  he  repeated  over  and 
over  again,  without  troubling  himself  to  inquire  whether  his  wife  understood  him 
or  not.  Many  an  unpleasantness  grew  out  of  this  trifle,  that  continued  silently, 
like  the  single  drop  of  rain,  to  wear  the  rock  of  domestic  happiness.  Sir  John 
persevered  in  drinking  deeply  of  the  bitter  cup  of  politics,  that  universal  destroyer 
of  society  and  kindly  feeling.  He  soon  discovered,  or  imagined  he  had  dis- 
covered, how  perfectly  a  continental  education  unfits  the  most  amiable  woman 
in  the  world  for  the  society  and  habits  of  our  islands ;  and  the  very  efforts 
Lady  Clavis  made  to  appear  cheerful,  were  silent  reproaches  to  him  for  not 
endeavouring  to  make  her  so ;  they  had,  however,  still  one  feeling  in  common 
— affection  for  their  child. 

While  the  mistress  of  Clavis  Abbey  was  engaged  in  watching  every  move- 
ment of  her  beloved  daughter,  as  the  nurse  paced  slowly  beneath  her  turret- 
window,  the  baronet  was  sitting  tete-a-tete  with  no  other  than  Denny  Dacey, 
who,  from  being  what  in  England  is  termed  bailiff  to  the  estate,  had  risen  to  the 
rank  of  agent,  under  the  title,  as  his  correspondents  set  forth,  of  "Dionysius 
Dacey,  Esq.,"  &c.  &c.  How  this  person  ever  acquired  the  influence  he  pos- 
sessed over  his  patron,  must  now  remain  a  mystery :  it  is  to  be  supposed  that 
he  insinuated  himself  into  his  good  graces,  as  a  weasel  does  into  a  rabbit-burrow, 
by  various  twists  and  windings,  of  which  nobler  animals  are  incapable.  It  was 
no  secret  in  the  country  that,  although  Sir  John's  political  apathy  no  longer 
existed,  he  had  not  acquired  the  active  habits  that  are  so  especially  necessary 
where  a  gentleman's  affairs  are  embarrassed,  and  where  nothing  but  good  sense, 
and  steady  economy,  can  retrieve  them.  During  the  young  baronet's  residence 
abroad,  Dacey  had  exceedingly  prospered ;  and  though  one  or  two  shrewd  land- 
holders suspected  he  used  means,  not  consistent  with  his  employer's  interests, 
to  obtain  both  influence  and  wealth,  there  was  so  much  plausibility  about  the 
man,  that  the  most  watchful  could  bring  nothing  home  to  him ;  his  bearing  was 
blunt  and  open ;  he  affected  honesty,  but  his  look  belied  the  utterance  of  his  tongue, 
for  his  eye  lacked  the  expression  of  truth,  and,  instead  of  looking  forth  straightly 
from  beneath  its  pent-house  lid,  was  everlastingly  twisting  into  corners — with 
cat-like  quickness,  watching  a  fitting  opportunity,  when  those  with  whom  he 
conversed  were  busied  about  other  matters,  to  scan  and  observe  their  counte- 
nances. It  has  been  to  me  an  entertaining,  though  often  an  unpleasing,  study, 
to  attend  to  the  varied  expressions  conveyed  by  the  mere  action  of  the  eye, 
almost  without  reference  to  the  other  features ;  and  I  would  avoid,  as  I  would  a 
poisoned  adder,  the  person  whose  eye  quivers  or  looks  down. 


126  THE    LAST    OP    THE    LINE. 

The  two  friends  (such  is  the  usual  term  given  to  those  who  eat  meat  at 
the  same  board)  were  seated  at  either  end  of  a  somewhat  long  table,  on  which 
were  piled  papers  of  various  dates  and  dimensions ;  a  huge  bowl  of  punch  had 
been  nearly  emptied  of  its  contents,  and  the  baronet  did  not  appear  particularly 
fit  for  business.  He  leaned  listlessly  on  the  table,  as  if  in  reverie,  and  it  was 
only  Dacey's  voice  that  roused  him  from  his  reflections. 

*'  But,  my  dear  Sir  John,"  he  commenced,  with  his  peculiar  drawl,  while 
his  eye  was  fixed  on  the  punch-ladle ;  "  My  dear  Sir  John,  'pon  my  sowl  it 
weighs  upon  my  conscience,  so  it  does,  to  be  managing  here,  and  you  to  the 
fore,  with  such  a  fine  head  and  so  much  cleverness  (a  sly  glance  to  see  how  the 
flattery  took) ;  't  is  a  shame  you  don't  turn  to  it  yourself,  for  by-'n-by  you  '11, 
may-be,  find  things  worse  nor  you  think  'em,  as  I  have  told  you  before,  God 
knows — " 

"  And  will  my  looking  over  these  cursed  papers  make  things  better  ?  It  is 
positively  enough  to  set  me  mad — just  at  a  time,  too,  when  our  grand  county 
meeting  is  coming  on,  and  the  general  election,  and  so  much  exertion  expected 
from  me ;  and  the  house  will  be  full  of  English  company  from  the  castle,  and 
Lady  C.  has  not  an  idea  how  English  people  should  be  entertained." 

"  But  sure  Miss  Dorncliff  is  coming  to  stop  with  my  lady  while  they  stay." 

"  Very  true ;  she  is  a  capital,  good-natured  girl,  'faith,  and  much  better  look- 
ing than  she  was  eight  years  ago,  when  I  left  Ireland.  Oh,  dear !  I  wonder 
young  men  of  fortune  marry,  Dacey !" 

"  Sir  John,  it  is  very  necessary." 

"  Well,  well,  I  suppose  it  is,  but  say  no  more  about  it ;  there  are  enough  of 
disagreeable  subjects  on  the  table  already."  The  baronet  looked  upon  the  pile 
of  papers,  and  the  agent  glanced  keenly  up,  but  his  eye  was  quickly  withdrawn. 

"  My  lady  was  in  a  convent,  I  believe,  Sir  John  ?" 

"  Ay ;  it  was  a  fine  exploit  to  get  her  out  of  it.  Well,  poor  thing,  she  trusted 
to  my  honour,  and  was  not  deceived." 

"  Of  course  you  were  married  by  a  priest  ?"     (This  was  said  cautiously.) 

"  To  be  sure  we  were,  and  by  a  jovial  fellow  too ;  he  went  with  me  to  the 
convent-wall,  and  performed  the  ceremony  at  the  foot  of  a  beautiful  old  cross, 
by  the  way-side,  as  the  moon  was  sailing  over  our  heads,  and  the  orange-trees 
were  showering  perfume  around  us.  Poor  Madelina  ?"  he  continued,  almost 
involuntarily,  "  I  found  the  withered  orange-blossoms,  which  that  night  I  bound 
upon  her  maiden  brow,  encased  in  a  casket,  with  the  hair  of  our  child,  only  this 
morning." 

"  You  had  the  ceremony  repeated  on  your  arrival  in  England  ?"  inquired 
Dacey. 

Sir  John  Clavis  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  reptile,  and,  in  a  sterner  tone  of  voice 
than  was  his  wont,  in  his  turn  became  the  querist. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  For  no  reason,  only  that  if  you  had  a  son  it  would  be  well  to  see  that  the 
marriage  was  firm  and  legal." 


THE   LAST    OF   THE   LINE.  127 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  the  baronet,  drily,  "  there  is  not  much  chance  of  that 
being  the  case ;  and  if  there  was — 

A  long  pause  followed  the  last  sentence,  which  neither  seemed  inclined 
to  disturb.  Dacey  gathered  the  papers  towards  him,  and,  pulling  his  spectacles 
from  his  forehead  to  his  nose,  occupied  himself  in  sorting  and  placing  them  in 
separate  piles ;  every  five  or  ten  minutes  a  heavy  sigh  escaped  from  his  lips,  the 
last  of  which  was  so  audible,  that  Sir  John  exclaimed,  "  What  the  devil,  man 
alive,  do  you  growl  for  in  that  manner? — one  would  think  that  you  expected 
the  ghost  of  your  uncle,  the  priest,  to  start  forth  from  the  papers,  and  upbraid 
you  with  your  apostacy !" 

"  Sorra  a  ghost  at  all,  then,  Sir  John,  among  the  papers ;  only  the  reality  of 
botherin'  debts,  custodiums,  thrown-up  leases  on  account  of  the  rackrent,  and 
the  Lord  knows  what !" 

"  And  whose  fault  is  it  ?"  replied  the  gentleman,  angrily ;  "  did  I  not  leave  it 
all  to  your  management  ?  The  property  was  a  good  property,  and  why  should 
it  not  continue  so  ?  I  'm  sure  I  can't  think  how  the  money  goes ;  to  do  Lady  C. 
justice  she  spends  nothing." 

"  There 's  the  hounds,  the  hunters,  and  five  grooms,  of  one  sort  or  other,  Sir 
John  ;  to  say  nothing  of  town-houses,  and  carriages,  and — " 

"  My  father  always  had  the  same  establishment,"  interrupted  Sir  John,  "  and 
never  kept  an  agent  to  overlook  matters  either." 

"  More 's  the  pity  !"  ejaculated  the  manager  (the  exclamation  might  have  been 
taken  in  two  ways). 

"  There 's  no  manner  of  use  in  my  keeping  you,  if  I  am  to  be  pestered  with 
these  eternal  accounts — accounts — accounts — morning,  noon,  and  night.  The 
simple  fact  is,"  continued  Sir  John,  rising  from  his  seat,  "  the  simple  fact  is, 
money  I  want,  and  money  I  must  have.  After  flying  to  the  Continent  to 
avoid  an  election,  I  find  that  now,  at  this  particular  crisis,  I  cannot  help 
running  into  the  very  strait  I  endeavoured  to  steer  clear  of.  My  friends  say 
it  is  necessary,  and  would  even  subscribe  (if  I  permitted)  to  return  me  free  of 
expense ;  that  I  will  never  do — so  money,  Dacey,  money  I  must  have,  that 's 
certain." 

"  It 's  easy  to  say  money,"  retorted  the  agent ; ."  will  you  sell,  Sir  John  ?" 

"  What  ?"  interrogated  the  baronet. 

"  There 's  the  corner  estate,  that  long  strip,  close  by  Ballyraggan ;  your 
cousin  Corney  of  the  hill  has  long  had  an  eye  to  it,  and  would  lay  down  some- 
thing handsome." 

"You  poor,  pitiful  scoundrel!"  exclaimed  Sir  John,  "do  you  think  it's 
come  to  that,  for  me  to  sell  land,  like  a  huckster ! — and  to  Corney  too,  a  fellow 
that  gathers  inches  off  every  estate,  as  a  magpie  picks  fi'pennies ! — a  fellow 
who,  basely  born,  and  basely  bred,  has,  nevertheless,  managed  to  accumulate 
wealth  like  a  pawnbroker,  on  the  miseries  of  others  !  I  know  he  has  had  an  eye 
on  that  property  these  eight  years,  but  look — sooner  than  he  should  have  it,  I  '11 


128  THE   LAST    OP    THE   LINE. 

beg  my  bread — I  '11  sell  the  estate  to  a  stranger  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  his 
.ever  possessing  an  acre  of  the  land." 

"  Please  yerself,  sir,"  replied  the  manager,  sweeping  some  of  the  papers  into 
a  wide-mouthed  canvass  sack  which  he  drew  from  under  his  chair.  "  Here 's 
Mr.  Damask's,  the  upholsterer's,  letter — swears,  if  he 's  not  paid,  he  '11  clap  on  an 
execution  like  lightning;  it's  as  good  as  2,500 1  now,  with  costs." 

"  Fire  and  fury !"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  who,  his  apathy  once  shaken  off, 
became  terrible  in  his  violence ;  "  do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad  ?" 

"  Then  I  '11  say  nothing  of  Mr.  Barry  Mahon's  little  letter,"  continued  the 
man  of  business,  quietly,  "  who  writes,  that  as  you  've  decided  on  standing,  in 
opposition  to  him,  he  '11  trouble  you  for  the  money  he  lent  you  as  good  as  four 
years  ago,  to  complete  some  purchase  or  other ;  it  ends  very  civilly  thoughf 
by  saying  that  it 's  only  the  knowledge  that  a  gentleman  like  you  will  be  a 
formidable  adversary,  which  obliges  him  to  strain  every  nerve  to  make  his  own 
step  firm." 

"  A  blight  upon  him  and  his  civility !" 

"  Then  here  is — ."  Mr.  Dacey  was  prevented  from  finishing  his  sentence, 
by  Sir  John's  striking  the  table  so  violently  with  his  clenched  hand,  that  the  .very 
punch-bowel  trembled,  and  the  agent  ejaculated,  "  Lord,  save  us !" 

"Look  here!"  said  the  baronet,  "you  have,  /  know — means,  somehow  or 
other,  of  raising  money  when  you  like ;  find  me  the  sum  of  ten  thousand  pounds 
by  this  day  week,  and  that  very  estate,  so  coveted  by  my  cousin  Corney,  shall 
be  yours  for  ever,  at  a  peppercorn  rent,  provided  the  matter  be  kept  secret ; 
mind,  provided  it  be  kept  secret,  and  you  bind  yourself  never  to  let  a  twig  of  it 
into  Corney's  possession." 

"  It 's  easy  to  keep  secret  a  thing  that  never  happens,"  observed  Dacey, 
rolling  the  cord  of  the  bag  between  his  finger  and  thumb;  "is  it  me  get 
money  when  I  like  ? — and  I  obliged  to  go  at  credit  even  for  these  brogues  on 
my  feet !" — and  he  put  forth  a  topped  boot,  well-polished  and  shining,  as  he 
spoke. 

"  The  Corner  estate,  as  it  is  called,"  repeated  Sir  John. 

"  At  a  peppercorn  rent,"  pondered  Dacey ;  "  if  a  body  could  any  way  make 
up  the  money,  I'  d  do  a  dale  to  oblige  you,  sir ;  and,  though  I  've  neither  cross 
nor  coin  to  bless  myself  with,  to  be  sure  I  know  them  that  has,  who,  may-be,  for 
a  valuable  consideration,  might — though  I  don't  know — the  little  estate — eh  ! — 
ten  thousand— it 's  badly  worth  that,  Sir  John,  unless,  indeed,  you  'd  throw  the 
fourteen  acres  of  pasture  by  the  loch  into  it." 

"  Well !"  exclaimed  the  indolent  baronet,  though  perfectly  conscious  that  the 
land  was  worth  double  the  sum ;  "  we  Ml  talk  about  that,  provided  you  insure  me 
the  money ;  and  now  gather  your  parchments,  and  vanish ;  I  've  had  enough  of 
arithmetic  to  last  me  for  some  months — and,  Dacey  !" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"After  the  election,  I  will  really  look  into  matters  myself;  but,  at  pre- 
sent, when  the  good  of  my  country  is  at  stake — when  we  are  threatened  with 


THE    LAST   OF    THE   LINE.  129 

invasion  from  without,  and  rebellion  from. within — the  man  must  be  basely  sel- 
fish who  thinks  of  self. — Oh,  Dacey!  did  you  see  the  Madeira  safely  into 
the  cellar  ?" 

"Yes,  Sir  John." 

"  Good  •  night,  Dacey ! — there — good  night — you  won't  forget — ten  thousand 
—hard  gold — none  of  your  flimsy  paper — the  Corner  estate." 

"  And  the  pasture." 

"  There,  good  night,"  repeated  the  baronet,  as  the  wily  agent  bowed  him- 
self out  of  the  apartment.  Sir  John  Clavis  rose  from  his  seat,  and  threw  open 
the  window  which  was  directly  under  the  turret  that  formed  the  boudoir  of  his 
Spanish  wife ;  indeed,  it  was  the  sound  of  her  guitar  that  had  drawn  him  to  it ; 
and  he  recognized  a  favourite  seguidilla,  to  which  he  had  written  words ;  he 
remembered  having  taught  her  to  repeat  them ;  and  the  full  rich  voice  that 
had  given  them  so  much  beauty — if  in  that  twilight  hour  it  sounded  less 
melodious — had  never  fallen  upon  his  ear  so  full  of  tenderness;  its  simple 
burthen — 

"  Sweet  olive-groves  of  Spain," 

brought  the  remembrance  of  what  Madelina  was  to  him,  in  the  days  when  he 
playfully  chid  the  mispronunciation  of  his  poetry;  and  as  the  prospect  of 
receiving  the  ten  thousand,  and  not  being  plagued  about  money  matters,  had 
somewhat  softened  his  temper  (the  idea  that  he  was  diminishing  his  property 
had  no  share  whatever  in  his  thoughts — possessing,  as  he  did,  the  dangerous — 
nay,  fatal,  faculty  of  looking  only  on  to-day),  he  thought,  I  say,  of  his  wife, 
with  more  complacency  than  he  had  done  since  the  affair  of  the  green  velvet. 
He  was  pleased  when  he  heard  Miss  Dorncliff  (of  whose  arrival  he  was  uncon- 
scious) urge  her  to  repeat  the  strain.  She  commenced,  but  at  a  line  which  he 
well  remembered — 

"  I  know  no  blessing  but  thy  smile." 

Her  voice  faltered,  and  the  next  moment  he  heard  her  friend  chiding  away  her 
tears ;  his  first  impulse  was  to  proceed  to  her  apartment,  and  inquire  their  cause  ; 
but  then  he  hated  scenes ;  and  vanity  or  curiosity,  or  both,  prompted  him  to 
remain  ;  and  the  broken  dialogue  which  followed,  happily  for  the  repose  of  his 
soul,  roused,  in  his  wife's  cause,  the  best  feelings  of  his  heart.  Many  were  the 
affectionate  expressions  lavished  by  Miss  DornclifF  on  her  friend,  and  many  the 
entreaties  that  she  would  cease  to  agitate  herself  upon  what,  she  insisted,  was  a 
surmise  without  foundation. 

"  You  would  not  say  so,"  replied  Madelina,  "  if  you  had  seen  his  atten- 
tions, his  tenderness,  on  the  Continent — or  heard  his  repeated  promises  that 
my  religion  should  be  held  sacred;  the  little  silver  shrine,  that  my  sainted 
mother  so  often  knelt  to,  I  have  been  obliged  to  remove,  even  from  this 
chamber,  which  it  is  mockery  to  call  my  own ;  and  though  I  cannot  understand 
17 


130  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE, 

all  he  says— and  though  his  eye  is  bright,  and  his  lip  smiles,  sometimes,  yet  he 
never  looks  upon  me  as  he  used ;  to  me  his  countenance  is  sadly  changed.1' 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,  my  dear,"  replied  her  friend,  taking  advantage  of  a 
pause  in  her  complaint,  "  adopt  the  course  I  should  have  taken,  if  my  good 
father's  scheme  had,  unfortunately  for  me,  been  carried  into  effect.  Assert 
your  own  dignity ;  if  he  looks  as  cold  as  snow,  do  you  look  as  cold  as  ice — if 
he  stamps,  do  you  storm — if  he  orders,  do  you  counter-order — if  he  says,  '  I 
will,'  do  you  say  '  you  shan't.'  My  life  on  it ! — such  conduct  for  one  week 
would  bring  him  sighing  to  your  feet.  Here  you  sit,  with  your 'baby,  which, 
if  he  had  the  common  feelings  of  a  man,  he  would  worship  you  for  presenting 
to  him—" 

"  Stop,  my  dear  Margaret,"  said  Lady  Clavis ;  "  do  him  not  injustice :  he 
loves  his  child  as  fondly  as  father  ever  loved  a  child ;  he  has  not  changed 
to  it—" 

"  Yet,"  interrupted,  in  her  turn,  the  indignant  Margaret,  "  he  has  not  changed 
yet,  but  who  can  tell  how  soon  he  may  ?  The  man  who  would  change  to  you 
must  be  base  indeed." 

"  He  is  not  base,"  replied  the  wife,  in  a  sweet,  low  tone,  which  penetrated 
into  the  inmost  recesses  of  Sir  John's  heart,  "  not  base,  only  weak ;  he  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  parcel  of  flatterers,  many  of  whom  hate  me  because  of  my  reli- 
gion, and  others  for  reasons  which  I  cannot  define ;  but  look,  Margaret,  were 
he  to  treat  me  as  a  dog,  were  he  to  spurn  me  from  him,  and  trample  me  to 
dust,  even  that  dust  would  rise  to  heaven's  own  gate  to  ask  for  blessings  on  his 
head." 

"  She  is  an  angel  after  all !"  thought  Sir  John. 

"  You  are  a  fool,  my  dear !"  both  thought  and  exclaimed  Miss  Dorncliff ; 
"  and  I  only  wish  I  were  big  enough  to  throw  him  over  the  terrace  of  this  old 
musty  place,  and  I  would  soon  choose  you  a  husband  worthy  of  your  love." 

"  Upon  my  word,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Minx  ?"  murmured  the 
baronet,  as  he  cautiously  closed  the  window,  resolving  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf, 
and  station  himself,  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  in  his  wife's  dressing- 
room.  He  could  not  avoid  thinking,  as  he  passed  through  the  winding  corri- 
dors and  up  the  staircases,  "  a  very  pretty  wife  I  should  have  had,  if  it  had 
been  as  my  worthy  agent  seems  to  think  it  might  be  even  now.  The  fellow 
means  well,  but  he  is  mistaken ;  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  call  my  life  my 
own — the  termagant!  Thank  goodness,  I  escaped  her!  I  never  valued  my 
blessing  before !" 

He  met  his  child  in  the  lobby,  and  took  the  laughing  cherub  from  the  nurse's 
to  his  own  arms.  As  he  prepared  to  enter,  "  You  may  go  down,  Mary,"  he 
said,  seeing  the  maid  waiting  to  receive  the  child.  "  I  will  take  Miss  Madeline 
in  myself." 

How  easily  can  a  man  make  the  woman  who  truly  loves  him,  happy !  It 
was  enough  for  Lady  Clavis  that  her  husband  was  at  her  side — enough  that  he 
smiled  upon  her — enough  that  he  called  her  "darling:"  although  it  would 


THE   LAST   OF    THE   LINE.  131 

have  been  better  for  them  both,  had  she  possessed  the  strength  of  mind  to 
entitle  her  to  the  name  of  "  friend,"  the  most  sacred,  yet  the  most  abused,  of 
all  endearing  terms.  Miss  Dorncliff  exulted  in  her  happiness,  though  her 
more  cool  and  deliberate  temperament  led  her  to  believe  that  Sir  John's  "  love- 
fit,"  as  she  termed  it  in  her  own  mind,  would  not  be  of  long  duration.  She 
little  knew  the  service  she  had  rendered  Lady  Clavis  by  her  somewhat  intem- 
perate advice;  nor  the  dread  of  the  baronet  lest  any  portion  of  that  advice 
should  be  followed  by  his  gentle  wife. 

As  Mary  Conway,  Madelina's  nurse,  descended  to  the  vestibule,  she  heard 
a  voice,  whose  sound  was  familiar  to  her  ear,  repeat  her  name  two  or  three 
times,  and  in  various  tones ;  she  lingered  for  a  moment,  and  then  as  if  gladly 
remembering  that  her  infant  charge  was  committed  to  its  parent's  care, 
turned  into  an  abrupt  passage,  leading  from  the  great  hall  to  one  of  the  arch- 
ways, where  dews  and  damps  mouldered  from  day  to  day  upon  the  massive 
walls. 

"What  are  ye  afther  wantin'  now,  Mister  Benjy?"  she  inquired,  as  the 
outline  of  her  lover's  (for  there  is  no  use  in  concealing  the  fact)  figure  became 
visible  to  her  laughing  eyes. 

"  Nothing  particular,  that  is  to  say  very  particular,"  replied  the  youth,  who 
was  no  other  than  Dacey's  nephew ;  "  only  I  'm  going  a  journey  to-night,  and  I 
thought  I  'd  be  all  the  betther  for  your  God  speed,  or,  may-be,  a  bit  of  prayer 
to  the  saints  you  think  so  much  of." 

"  A  journey — where  to?"  inquired  Mary,  with  a  palpitating  heart. 

"  Why,  thin,  just  to  Dublin,  Mary,  honey.  And  it 's  glad  enough  I  'd  be  to 
get  out  of  this  murderin'  grand  ould  place,  only  just  for  one  single  thing." 

"  And  might  a  body  know  what  that  is  ?"  again  inquired  the  maiden. 

"  Honour  bright,  Mary,  because  I  shan't  see  yer  sweet  smilin'  face  for  many 
a  long  day,  may-be ;  for  uncle  says  he  has  a  dale  o'  business  to  transact  in 
Dublin,  and  that  he'll  be  wanting  me  to  look  afther  it;  indeed,  I'm  thinkin'  that 
he  has  a  notion  we  're  keeping  company,  and  don't  over  like  it ;  though,  Mary, 
darlin',  it 's  more  nor  he  can  do  to  put  between  us." 

Mary  covered  her  face  with  her  hand,  and,  though  no  sigh  or  sound  escaped 
her  lips,  tears  bedewed  her  cheeks.  She  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a 
frank-hearted,  good-natured  girl,  with  only  three  or,  perhaps,  four  definite  ideas 
in  her  pretty  round  head — the  first  of  which  was  decided  love  for  her  mistress, 
and  her  mistress's  child — a  great  portion  of  affection  for  Benjamin  Dacey — and 
no  small  regard  for  finery,  in  all  its  branches  and  bearings ;  she  consequently 
had  not  a  multiplicity  of  objects  to  divide  her  attention,  which  was  therefore 
steadily  devoted  to  the  service  of  her  three  or  four  several  propensities.  The 
idea  of  her  lover's  being  sent  away,  and  to  Dublin  too,  overwhelmed  her  with 
grief,  to  which  she  would  have  given  more  audible  vent,  but  that  Benjamin 
had  unwittingly  observed,  his  "uncle  didn't  over  like  his  keeping  company 
with  her,"  which  aroused  the  maiden's  pride ;  she  therefore  said,  "  that,  indeed, 
Mr.  Dacey  ought  to  remimber  when  he  once  held  two  or  three  acres  of  land 


132  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE. 

under  her  father,"  and  that,  "  though  she  was  at  the  Abbey,  she  was  far  from 
being  a  rale  sarvant ;  she  took  care  of  Miss  Maddy  more  from  pure  love  nor 
anything  else.  May-be,  it  was  Mister  Benjy  himself  that  wanted  to  be  off  the 
promise — if  so,  she  was  willing  and  ready,"  &c.  &c.  But,  in  fact,  these  lovers' 
quarrels  are  the  same  in  all  cases ;  I  could  give  a  recipe  by  which  people  might 
quarrel,  agreeably,  ten  times  a  week  on  an  average — only,  as  love  would  be  the 
principal  ingredient  in  my  prescription,  I  fear  the  misunderstandings  would  be 
too  soon  understood  for  your  genuine  downright-in-earnest  quarrellers.  I 
must  not  tarry  with  those  young  people,  during  their  parting  scene,  but  only 
recount  that  "Mary,"  as  she  afterwards  expressed  it,  "got  a  dale  out  of 
Benjy,  which  no  one  should  be  the  wiser  for ;  only  her  heart  was  fairly  crushed 
— thinkin'  what  a  misfortune  it  was  to  a  boy  like  him  to  have  such  an  uncle ;" 
even  this  she  only  communicated  to  her  particular  friend  and  companion,  Patty 
Grace. 

When  the  expected  company  arrived  from  Dublin, — from  "  the  Castle,"  as 
it  has  been  familiarly  termed  for  ages — it  was  evident  that  Sir'  John  had  nerved 
his  mind  to  some  great  undertaking  to  which  he  was  secretly  urged  by  Dennis 
Dacey.  Indeed,  the  particular  party  which  had  once  been  led  by  his  father, 
were  anxious  he  should  tread  in  the  same  steps,  and  they  again  regretted 
that  his  union  with  a  Catholic  was  likely  to  cool  his  ardour  in  "  the  good 
cause ;"  they,  however,  did  their  best  to  urge  him  forward — and  "  the  glorious 
and  immortal  memory"  was  drank  so  often  after  dinner,  that  those  who  sacri- 
ficed to  the  sentiment  had  neither  glorious  nor  inglorious  memory  left.  The 
humble  parish  priest  never  joined  in  these  revels ;  and  when  Dacey,  in  Lady 
Clavis's  presence,  hinted  at  this  circumstance,  and  had,  moreover,  the  audacity 
to  assert  that  his  absence  was  a  tacit  acknowledgment  of  disloyalty,  the  lady 
roused  herself  in  defence  of  her  ancient  friend,  and  told  the  agent  that,  if  reli- 
gion was  a  proof  of  loyalty,  he  must  be  the  worst  of  traitors,  for  he  was  a 
renegade  from  the  faith  of  his  fathers,  and  had  changed  for  the  love  of  filthy 
lucre.  Dacey  trembled  and  turned  pale;  but  as  he  quitted  the  apartment  he 
muttered  a  deep  and  bitter  curse  against  the  lady  of  Clavis  Abbey.  Not  only 
had  "  the  little  estate"  been  secretly  transferred  to  Dacey,  along  with  the 
fourteen  acres  of  pasture,  and  the  ten  thousand  pounds  paid  for  present  relief, 
but  other  sums  must,  at  this  crisis,  be  advanced  to  relieve  the  necessities  of  the 
proprietor,  and  other  lands  sacrificed  to  feed  the  rapacity  of  the  agent.  Mr. 
Barry  Mahon  resolved  to  stand  as  the  people's  champion,  and  already  were 
the  addresses  of  the  several  candidates  duly  printed  in  the  county  papers.  The 
Abbey  became  such  a  scene  of  interminable  bustle  and  confusion,  as  the  day  for 
the  commencement  of  the  election  approached,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  convey 
an  idea  of  the  strange  persons  and  objects  which  crowded  on  each  other.  To 
Mary  Conway's  great  delight,  Benjamin  unexpectedly  returned ;  and,  from  the 
manner  in  which  his  uncle  received  him,  it  might  be  supposed  that  he  was  not 
particularly  pleased  at  the  circumstance ;  he,  however,  carved  out  for  him  the 
task  of  managing  (dare  I  say  bribing  ?)  a  few  refractory  freeholders  at  some 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE.  133 

distance :  but  the  young  man  did  not  depart  until  he  had  whispered  some  words 
of  moment  into  his  true  love's  ear.  The  same  evening,  when  Mary  was  undress- 
ing the  little  Madeline,  Lady  Clavis  entered  the  room,  happy  to  escape  from 
a  tumult  she  could  hardly  understand. 

"  I  'm  so  glad  yer  honourable  ladyship  's  come  in,"  said  the  girl ;  "  I  wanted 
so  much  to  know  what  you  'd  have  packed  up  to  take  into  town  to-morrow,  my 
lady — as,  in  coorse,  you  mean  to  go  with  his  honour  to  see  the  election  and  all 
that?" 

"  Indeed,  Mary,"  replied  Lady  Clavis,  "  I  have  no  such  intention ;  I  shall  be 
but  too  glad  to  escape  the  bustle  of  it  here — and  I  should  be  only  in  the  way, 
Sir  John  says." 

"  Och,  my  grief !  does  his  honour,  the  masther,  say  that?  But  no  matter, 
Madam,  dear ;  for  the  love  o'  God,  as  ye  value  yer  own  honour,  and  the  honour 
of  this  sweet  babby,  go  ! — go,  for  God's  sake  ! — or  you  '11  be  sorry  for  it, — mark 
my  words !" 

Lady  Clavis  was  astonished  at  the  girl's  vehement  manner  and  gestures,  but 
still  she  remained  firm  to  her  purpose.  She  was  suffering  acutely  from  mental 
anxiety  and  bodily  exertion ;  and  as  Sir  John  had  continued  to  treat  her  with 
great  kindness,  she  was  anxious  to  show  how  willingly  she  would  yield  to  his 
wishes — even  where  they  were  opposed  to  her  own.  But  Mary  was  not  to  be 
thus  satisfied.  She  "hushowed"  her  little  charge  to  sleep,  and  descended  to 
the  lobby  that  led  to  her  master's  study.  She  paused  for  a  few  moments  at 
the  entrance,  and  inclined  her  head  so  as  to  catch  any  sound  that  might  pass 
along,  having  ascertained  that  persons  were  speaking  within.  I  cannot  avoid 
lamenting  that  she  was  led  away,  by  what  might  be  called  "  natural  curiosity," 
to  draw  near — very  near;  so  near  that  her  ear  covered  the  key-hole — and 
listen — systematically  listen — to  whatever  conversation  was  going  on.  She 
might  have  remained  some  fifteen  minutes,  in  no  very  comfortable  attitude, 
when  she  suddenly  started  up;  but  had  hardly  receded  three  steps  from  the 
door,  when  it  was  opened,  and  the  round  vulgar  face  of  Dacey  appeared,  care- 
fully prying  into  the  darkness.  Mary  saw  she  could  not  escape  unnoticed,  so, 
with  ready  wit,  she  inquired,  "  Oh,  Misther  Dacey,  have  you  seen  my  lady's 
Finny  ?  I  've  been  huntin'  all  the  evenin'  after  the  ugly  baste,  and  can  get 
neither  tale  nor  tidings  of  it  ? — Finny  ! — Finny  ! — Finny  !" 

"  Can  ye  see  in  the  dark,  like  the  cats,  Miss  Mary,  with  yer  fine  red  topknot  ?" 
said  Dacey,  earnestly. 

"  Troth  ye  may  ask  that,"  she  replied,  "  for  my  candle  went  out." 

"  And  where 's  the  candlestick,  Miss  Mary  ?"  persisted  the  keen  querist. 

"  No  wonder  ye  'd  inquire,  but  sorra  one  have  we  been  able  to  lay  hands  on 
these  three  weeks,  for  the  shoals  o'  company,  so  I  just  used  the  same  candlestick 
my  father  and  your  father,  Misther  Dacey,  war  best  acquainted  with — my  fingers, ' 
why  ! Finny  ! — Finny  ! — Finny  !" 

She  was  receding,  calling  the  dog  at  the  same  time ;  when  Dacey,  whose  ire 


134  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE. 

was  roused,  followed  her  nearly  to  the  end,  and  said,  "  You  'd  better  not  turn 
yer  tongue  against  my  family,  Miss  Impudence,  for  ye  're  mighty  anxious  to  get 
into  it,  I  'm  thinkinV 

"  Not  into  your  family,  Misther  Dacey,"  retorted  Mary,  proudly.  "  Anxious, 
indeed !  I  don't  deny  that  Benjy  and  I  have  been  keepin'  company,  though  my 
true  belief  is,  he 's  no  nevvy  of  yours.  Ye  'd  think  little  of  adoptm'  any  man's 
child  or  property  either." 

"  Hah !"  he  exclaimed,  seizing  her  arm,  and  pressing  it  firmly,  "  is  that  the 

news  ye 're  afther? — ye 'd  better "  but  the  girl  prevented  his  finishing  his 

threat  by  screaming  "  Murder !"  so  loudly,  that  Sir  John  Clavis  rushed  out,  with 
a  candle  in  his  hand,  to  inquire  into  the  nature  of  the  disturbance. 

Dacey  looked  extremely  foolish,  while  Mary  lifted  her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and, 
with  well-feigned  tears,  declared,  "  It 's  a  shame — and  I  '11  tell  my  lady,  so  I  will, 
that  when  I  was  looking  for  little  Finny,  he  came  out  of  your  honour's  study  to 
kiss  me,  yer  honour — a  dacent  girl  like  me— I  '11  tell  my  lady,  so  I  will.  Finny ! 
— Finny! — Finny!"  And  off  she  marched  triumphantly,  leaving  Dacey  to 
explain  his  equivocal  situation  as  he  best  could. 

The  night  had  become  dark  and  stormy,  and  when  Mary  put  her  head  from 
under  the  archway,  before  mentioned,  large  drops  of  rain  were  drifted  on  her 
face.  She  hastily  folded  her  grey  mantle  round  her,  and  stepping  from  parapet 
to  parapet  of  the  ancient  enclosure,  gained  a  particular  elevation  that  overlooked 
the  entire  country.  Here  she  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  pushed  into  the 
brushwood  that  covered  the  slope  leading  to  the  meadows.  Having  reached 
the  stream,  that  partook  of  the  agitation  of  the  evening  gale,  she  seemed  puz- 
zled how  to  make  her  passage  good ;  but  her  perplexity  was  not  of  long  duration, 
although  the  stepping-stones  were  perfectly  covered  by  the  swollen  waters. 
She  seated  herself  on  the  wet  grass,  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings,  and,  fold- 
ing her  clothes  round  her,  prepared  to  cross  the  river. — Having  achieved  her 
purpose,  after  much  buffeting  with  both  wind  and  water,  she  readjusted  her  dress 
and  proceeded  on  her  way  so  intently,  and  with  so  much  resolution,  that  I  doubt 
if  she  would  have  stayed  her  course  had  she  even  met  the  bogle  that  frightened 
the  good  Shepherd  of  Ettrick — 

"  Its  face  was  black  as  Briant  coal, 

Its  nose  was  o'  the  whunstane  ; 
Its  mou'  was  like  a  borel-hole — 

That  puffed  out  fire  and  brimstane." 

Regardless  of  banshees,  cluricauns,  or  any  of  the  fairy  tribe,  Mary  pressed 
earnestly  forward  till  she  arrived  opposite  a  small  gate  that  opened  into  an 
extensive  park ;  the  lock  was  out  of  repair,  so  that  she  had  but  to  apply  her 
finger  underneath,  and  push  the  bolt  back.  She  only  paused  to  inhale  a  long 
breath,  and  flew  onward  across  the  yielding  grass,  startling  birds  and  herded 
deer  from  their  early  slumbers :  this  continued  fleetness  soon  brought  her  opposite 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE.  135 

the  gate  of  a  noble  modern  mansion,  but  she  preferred  entering  through  a  little 
postern-door,  to  ascending  the  stone  steps. 

"  Where 's  her  honour  ?"  she  inquired  of  an  old  serving-man,  astonished  at  her 
untimely  visit. 

"  Lord,  Mary  !  you  've  frightened  the  senses  out  o'  me." 

"  Why,  then,  it 's  myself  is  glad  to  hear  it." 

"Why  so,  Mary?" 

"Because  it's  the  first  time  I've  heard  of  yer  havin'  any  in,— but  where 's 
the  lady  ?" 

"  Umph,"  replied  the  old  servant,  evidently  annoyed,  "  find  out !"  and,  turning 
on  his  heel,  he  was  leaving  the  offended  damsel  alone,  when  she  snatched  the 
candle  that  maintained  a  very  equivocal  equilibrium  in  his  hand,  and  ran  up  the 
back  staircase. 

"  That  one  has  the  impudence  of  the  ould  boy  in  her,  and  makes  as  free  in 
this  house  as  if  it  was  her  own,"  he  observed. 

She  tapped  gently  at  the  door  of  a  small  apartment,  and  a  clear-toned  voice 
responded,  "  Come  in."  lu  another  moment  Mary  was  in  Miss  Dorncliff's  pre- 
sence. She  advanced,  making  a  courtesy  at  every  second  step,  until  she  stood 
opposite  the  young  lady,  who  regarded  her  with  much  surprise. 

"Why,  Mary,  is  your  mistress  ill  —  or  has  anything  happened  to  little 
Madeline?" 

"  No,  God  be  thanked— nothin' — to  say  nothin' — yet,"  replied  the  girl,  laying 
her  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair  for  support,  for  she  had  traversed  nearly  five 
Irish  miles  -in  less  than  an  hour. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  my  good  girl,"  said  the  lady,  kindly ;  "  and,  as  soon  as 
you  can,  telj  me  what  has  agitated  you  thus." 

"Thank  you,  my  lady — sure  ye  said  that  just  like  herself  that's  the  angel 
intirely,  if  ever  there  was  one,  God  knows ! — and  God  counsel  her,  and  you,  my 
lady ;  for  she  won't  be  said  or  led  by  me,  and  more  's  the  pity  !" 

"  You  speak  of  your  mistress,  Mary,  I  suppose,"  interrupted  Miss  Dorncliff, 
"  but  do  come  to  the  point  at  once,  for  I  am  all  anxiety." 

"  I  can't  make  a  long  story  short,  Madam,  particular  when  my  heart 's  all  in 
it — but  as  fast  as  I  can,  I  '11  riddle  it  all  out,  for  sure  my  heart 's  burstin'  to  tell 
it."  The  lady  assumed  the  attitude  of  a  patient  listener,  and  Mary,  again  draw- 
ing a  long  breath,  and  pulling  first  one  and  then  another  of  her  red  but  taper 
fingers,  commenced  the  disclosure  of  her  mystery. 

"  Ye  remember,  when  her  ladyship  first  came  over,  the  bobbery  and  the 
work  there  was  about  her ;  and  the  people — the  protestant  people  (savin'  yer 
favour — all  but  yerself)  saying  this,  that,  and  t'  other  about  her,  as  if  she  wasn't 
what  she  ought  to  be.  Well,  to  my  knowledge  and  belief,  the  one  who  kept 
this  stirrin'  was  no  other  than  that  ould  vagabond — that  the  beams  of  God's  own 
sun  and  moon  'ud  scorn  to  rest  upon  (savin'  yer  presence,  for  mentionin'  him  be- 
fore ye) — ould  Dacey ;  because  ye  're  sensible  he 's  a  turn-coat  in  the  first  place 


136  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE. 

— and  my  lady  is  so  steady  to  her  duty,  that  it  was  ever  and  always  puttin'  him  to 
shame ;  and  then  to  be  sure  my  lady,  seein',  I  suppose,  that  in  foreign  parts 
the  poor  are  all  negres,  God  save  us !  (may-be  black  bodies  too)  my  lady  was 
high  to  him — she  has  a  high  way  with  her,  I  grant,  and  sure  so  has  the  lilies, 
though  they  're  so  sweet  and  gentle  when  you  come  to  know  them — well,  for 
that  he  hated  her ;  and  I  'm  sure  it 's  more  to  get  at  the  way  of  punishing  her, 
than  even  securin'  the  property,  that  he 's  been  goin'  on  as  he  has  lately " 

"Securing  what  property?  —  going  on  how?'  eagerly  demanded  Miss 
Dorncliff. 

"  Let  me  tell  ye  my  own  way,  Miss,  agra !  or  I  can't  go  on ;  besides,  how 
would  ye  get  at  the  rights  of  it,  if  ye  didn't  hear  it  from  the  beginnin'  1" 

Miss  Dorncliff  resumed  her  patient  attitude. 

"  Ye  see  ould  Dacey  knows  what  he 's  afther,  and  Sir  John  has  a  way  of  his 
own  of  never  seein'  to  anything — gentleman-like — though  I  can't  but  think  it 
a  bad  fashion ;  and  while  he  was  away,  there  was  a  dale  of  plunderin'  roguery 
goin'  on;  and  when  he  came  home,  sure  the  agent  managed  to  keep  him 
employed  gettin'  presentments,  and  entertainin',  an'  making  speeches  about 
pathriotism,  and  all  that  (I  've  been  tould  he 's  a  powerful  fine  speaker,  though 
I  can't  say  I  ever  heard  him) — and  ever  divartin'  him  with  sich  things,  till  the 
right  time,  when  he  turned,  my  dear !  as  quick  as  a  merryman,  and  bothered 
him  with  debts  and  accounts.  Now  the  masther,  bein'  a  classical  scholard  (as 
I  've  heard  tell),  didn't  by  coorse  like  the  figures,  which  are  only  common 
larnin' ;  and  the  ould  one  played  his  cards  so  well,  that  he  made  him  hate  the 
sight  of  a  bill,  or  a  figure ;  till  at  last  Sir  John  said,  '  Manage  it  all  yerself,' 
which  he  was  glad  to  get  the  wind  of  the  word  to  do,  though  all  the  time  he 
was  purtendin'  he  wanted  the  masther  to  look  to  it  himself —  the  thief  o'  the 
world !  As  well  as  I  can  come  at  it,  Madam  (Miss,  I  ax  yer  pardon),  Sir  John 
agreed  to  let  Dacey  have  pieces  of  estates,  on  the  sly,  for  ready  money,  at  half 
their  valee — agreein'  that  Dacey  should  keep  it  to  himself;  for  the  pride,  ye 
see,  wouldn't  let  him  own  it ;  and  the  ould  one,  'cute  like,  got  sich  another  rogue 
as  himself,  in  Dublin,  to  go  somethin'  in  it  You  're  sinsible,  Miss,  my  lady  ? 
Bein'  not  a  well  lamed  girl,  never  havin'  got  beyant  my  read-a-me-daisy,  I 
can't  understand  the  rights  of  it,  only  that  these  two  was  cochering  together, 
and  procurin'  money — for  what  I  know,  unlawful  money — from  foreign  parts, 
and  gettin'  bit  by  bit  of  the  poor  masther's  property  from  him',  and  tyin'  him 
down,  as  Benjy  said." 

"  As  who  said  ?"  interrupted  Miss  Dorncliff. 

"  Why,  Benjy  said  so,"  stammered  forth  the  girl,  confused  at  committing  her 
lover's  name. 

"  Then  Benjy,  as  you  call  him,  was  your  informant  as  to  these  pretty  villanous 
plots,  I  suppose  ?"  interrogated  the  lady. 

"  I  didn't  say  that,  Miss  Dorncliff:  sure  a  body  may  make  a  remark,  as  the 
poor  boy  did,  when  they  hear  a  thing,  without  being  the  one  to  tell  it  ?"  retorted 
the  girl,  keenly  looking  into  her  face ;  and  the  lady,  wisely,  seeing  that  Mary 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE.  137 

was  now  put  on  the  qui  vive  to  prevent  her  lover  being  suspected  as  the  informer, 
merely  replied,  "  Go  on." 

"  Ye  've  put  me  out  ever  so  many  times !  but  all  I  've  got  to  say 's  asy  said 
now ;  it  isn't  enough  for  that  ould  devil's  pippin  that  he  has  custotied,  or  some 
sich  thing,  the  whole  land,  so  as  to  make  the  noble  gentleman  all  as  one  as  a 
genteel  beggar,  but  now  that  the  election  is  come  on,  and  Sir  John  goin'  to 
stand  for  the  county  and  all — what  d'ye  think,  but  he  's  laid  a  plan  to  get  the 
poor  gentleman  into  W ,  to  give  the  word  to  some  thraythors  of  vaga- 
bonds, and  get  him  arrested  and  shamed  forenent  the  whole  county,  unless — 
(oh,  the  black  villain!)  —  unless — (the  sneakin'  ditch-hopper !)  —  unless — (oh, 
indeed  I  can't  say  it,  for  the  chokin'  of  my  throat !) — unless  he  puts  away  his  dar- 
lin'  wife — who  can  be  made  out  not  his  wife,  on  account  of  the  religion,  as  I  'm 
creditably  informed ;  and  that,  if  he  doesn't  give  in  to  this,  he  '11  expose  him 
in  the  face  of  the  people,  which  I  know  the  masther  'ud  rather  die  than  stand. 
Well,  Miss,  ye  see,  he 's  got  Sir  John  to  promise  intirely  that  he  '11  not  take  my 
lady  with  him,  because  she  's  delicate  like ;  and  he 's  persuaded  masther  she  'd  be 
in 'the  way.  And  I  want  her  to  go — for  look,"  continued  Mary,  giving  full 
scope  to  the  action  and  energy  of  her  country,  "  if  she  was  with  him,  he  couldn't 
desart  her,  and  look  in  her  sweet  patient  face,  and  her  two  darlint  eyes,  that 
send  the  bames  of  true  and  pure  love  right  to  his  soul ;  he  couldn't  look  at  that, 
ma'am  dear,  and  consent  to  stick  a  knife  in  her  heart,  and  send  the  blessin'  of 
the  poor,  the  light  of  one's  eyes — the  fond  craythur  that  trusted  him,  as  if  she 
was  a  thing  of  shame,  abroad  into  the  could,  could,  world ! — but — "  and  here 
the  poor  girl's  voice  sank  from  the  highest  tones  of  hope,  to  the  low  and  feeble 
ones  of  uncertainty — "  if  she 's  not  with  him,  and  that  villain  at  his  shoulder — 
and  the  disgrace — and  lose  the  election — and  all  that ;  and  if  he  agrees — plinty 
o'  money — and  the  seat — and  ivery  thing  smooth,  and  keep  him  more  than  half 
or  whole  mad,  betwixt  the  fame  and  the  whiskey  ! — it  'ill  be  all  over  with  my 
poor  lady  ! — Oh,  she  little  thinks  ! — this  blessed  night — she  '11  lay  down  her  head 
and  die !"  Mary  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  bitterly. 

"  My  poor  friend ! — my  dear  Madelina !"  exclaimed  Miss  Dorncliff,  as  she 
hastily  passed  up  and  down  the  apartment ;  "  how  worthy  of  a  better  fate ! — 
Mary,  there  is  no  use  in  your  denying  it ;  Benjy  has  given  you  this  information, 
and  he  must  give  it  publicly." 

"  D'ye  want  ruin  on  him  too  ?"  returned  the  subdued  girl ;  "  sure  he 's  above  a 
trade,  and  has  been  brought  up  like  a  born  gentleman  to  do  nothin' ; — and,  even 
if  he  had  a  mind,  how  can  he  turn  agin  the  ould  villain,  his  uncle,  when  sorra 
a  penny  he  'd  have  in  the  world,  and  doesn't  know  how  to  make  one?" 

"  Look,"  said  the  lady ;  "  if  Benjamin  will  bring  forward  such  proof  of  trick- 
ery as  can  force  conviction  on  Sir  John's  mind,  /  will  settle  upon  him  a  suffi- 
ciency for  life ;  and  there,"  she  continued,  throwing  her  purse  into  Mary's  lap, 
"  is  the  earnest  of  my  promise."  For  a  moment,  the  girl  forgot  her  mistress's 
interests  in  her  own,  as  she  eyed  the  glittering  treasure ;  but  soon  she  reverted 
to  what,  with  true  Irish  fidelity,  was  nearest  her  heart. 
18 


138  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE. 

"  My  lady,  you  '11  come  to  her  now,  and  persuade  the  masther  to  take  her  and 
make  out  something  to  oblige  him  to  take  her.  Och  !  my  heart  never  warmed 

to  ye  as  much  as  it  does  at  this  minute ! — for  they  said ."     She  stopped 

before  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence. 

"  What  did  they  say,  Mary  ?"  inquired  Miss  Dorncliff. 

"  That  you,  my  lady — only  I  'm  loath  to  repeat  a  lie — that,  may-be,  you  'd 
marry  the  masther,  if  he  'd  put  away  his  wife." 

Miss  DornclifPs  face  and  forehead  crimsoned  to  the  deepest  dye  at  this 
villanous  insinuation.  "  Me !"  she  ejaculated,  as  if  to  herself,  "  Me ! — the  base- 
born  churls !  But  I  will  save  her,  come  what  may.  Mary,"  she  continued, 
after  a  pause,  "  Mary,  do  not  say  a  word  of  your  having  been  here— mind,  not 
a  syllable.  You  will  see  me  in  the  morning." 

"  Before  masther  goes  ?"  inquired  Mary. 

"  No,  but  soon — immediately  after.  Fear  not,  my  good  girl,  your  mistress 
shall  be  safely  cared  for." 

"  May  the  holy  Mother,  whether  ye  've  faith  in  her  or  no,  preserve  ye  from 
harm,  and  may  heaven  be  yer  bed  at  last !"  replied  Mary,  clasping  her  hands, 
and  looking  most  affectionately  at  Miss  Dorncliff;  "  and  a  good  night,  and  a  fresh 
blessin'  to  ye  every  mornin'  that  ye  see  day-light !" 

When  Miss  Dorncliff  was  again  alone,  she  resolved  her  plans  as  she  paced 
along  her  chamber.  For  the  last  three  years  she  had  had  the  sole  manage- 
ment and  control  of  her  father's  affairs,  whose  age  had,  in  a  great  degree, 
swallowed  up  his  mind ;  and  a  large  property  was  also  at  her  sole  command, 
which  she  had  already  inherited  from  her  uncle.  That  night  she  neither 
slumbered  nor  slept ;  repose  came  not  to  her  body  or  her  spirit ;  and,  from 
the  highest  window  of  the  dwelling,  she  watched  until  she  saw  Sir  John's 
equipage,  with  his  troop  of  noisy  retainers,  pass  the  great  gate  on  its  way  to 

W .     She  then  ordered  her  own  carriage,  and  in  a  little  time  was  at  Clavis 

Abbey.  The  first  person  she  inquired  for  was  Mary,  and  doubtless  she 
derived  some  information  from  her,  for  they  were  long  together.  She  then  pro- 
ceeded to  Lady  Clavis's  dressing-room,  and  found  her  in  tears. 

"I  cannot  tell  why,"  she  said,  "but  I  feel  a  sad  anticipation  of  evil 
hanging  over  me.  It  was  so  strange,  John  kissed  me  this  morning  when  he 
thought  I  was  asleep ;  and,  do  you  know,  he  attempted  to  kneel  at  Madelina's 
cradle,  but  he  rushed,  like  a  madman,  from  the  room,  despite  my  efforts  to 
recall  him." 

"  We  must  follow  him,  then,"  observed  Miss  Dorncliff,  assuming  an  air  of 
gaiety, — "  we  must  follow  him ;  I  want  most  sadly  to  go  to  the  election — my 
presence  will  cheer  on  my  own  tenants  to  his  service ;  and  there  is  no  saying 
but  that  some  of  them,  were  I  not  on  the  spot,  might  dare  to  think  for  themselves. 
Besides,  I  can  only  go  under  the  protection  of  a  matron,  you  know.  No  inter 
ruption — I  must  be  obeyed ;  we  will  set  off  this  afternoon,  so  as  to  hear  his 
maiden  speech  from  the  hustings." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE.  139 

Lady  Clavis  offered  a  very  weak  opposition  to  what  her  heart  longed  to 

engage  in,  and  they  arrived  in  W at  about  half-past  ten  at  night.  The 

little  Madelina  was  left  in  Mary's  care  at  the  Abbey. 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  inn,  or,  as  it  was  called,  hotel,  where 
the  Orange  member  put  up ;  for  he  had  steadily  refused  going  to  the  house  of 
either  of  his  constituents. 

The  waiters  immediately  recognized  Lady  Clavis,  and,  with  many  bows,  con- 
ducted her  into  the  passage,  which  was  empty  at  the  time,  though  the  sounds  of 
music,  singing,  and  loud  debate,  were  clearly  distinguished  by  the  ladies,  even 
before  they  alighted  from  their  carriage. 

"  You  can  show  us  to  a  sitting-room,  where  we  can  wait  till  Sir  John  is  disen- 
gaged. We  wish  to  surprise  him,"  said  Miss  Dorncliff. 

"  I  can't  tell  him  ye  're  here  just  now,  my  lady,"  replied  the  man,  "  for  Mr. 
Dacey  said  they  war  not  to  be  disturbed ;  and  there 's  two  gentlemen,  I  'm  thinkin' 
from  Dublin,  besides  two  or  three  others,  waitin'  to  get  speakin'  with  him.  And 
it 's  myself  don't  know  where  to  put  yer  ladyships,  barrin'  ye  '11  go  into  a  purty 
tidy  room  jist  off-  where  his  honour 's  settlin'  a  little  affair  of  business  with  Mr. 
Dacey.  Sure,  if  I  'd  known  you  war  comin',  it 's  the  great  grand  committee- 
place  I  'd  have  had  redied  out  for  ye." 

"  Be  firm  and  cautious  now,  my  dear  friend,  for  the  hour  of  trial  is  come," 
observed  Miss  Dorncliff,  in  French,  as  she  pressed  her  friend's  arm  closely  to 
her  heart ; — "  the  men  from  Dublin,  and  all :  we  have  just  arrived  in  the  right 
time — depend  upon  it,  all  will  be  well." 

The  waiter  stared  with  stupid  astonishment,  and  said,  "  May-be  ye  'd  have 
the  goodness,  my  lady,  not  to  speak  out  much,  as  Sir  John 's  at  business  in  the 
next  room,  and  he  mightn't  like  to  be  disturbed ;  it  'ill  do  to  tell  him  by-'n-by, 
won't  it, -my  lady1?  But  what  '11  you  please  to  take  ?" 

"  Nothing — nothing,  now,"  replied  Miss  Dorncliff;  for  Lady  Clavis  appeared 
incapable  of  either  mental  or  bodily  exertion.  Her  friend  had  revealed  to  her  a 
considerable  portion  of  her  plans  and  anxieties  during  their  brief  journey,  and 
her  elegant  but  weak  mind,  unable  to  arrive  at  any  conclusion,  remained  in  a 
state  of  passive  obedience. 

Communicating  with  the  next  apartment  was  a  small  door,  which  hung 
very  loosely  on  its  hinges;  the  cracks  and  chinks  were  many;  and  through 
the  principal  one  Miss  Dorncliff  saw  Sir  John  sitting  at  a  table,  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands;  while  Dacey,  whose  head  was  approached  close  to  his,  was 
talking  in  a  low  eager  tone — so  low  that  only  broken  syllables  reached 
her  ear. 

At  last  Sir  John  removed  his  hands,  and,  lifting  his  eyes  slowly,  while  his  pale 
and  sunken  features  expressed  the  painful  struggles  he  endured,  said,  "  It  must 
not  be,  Dacey ;  do  you  think  I  want  to  insure  damnation  to  my  soul  ?  What 
possible  difference  can  it  make  to  you,  that  you  thus  stipulate  for  her  destruction? 
Men  are  seldom  so  desperately  wicked  without  a  motive." 

"  Hasn't  she  scorned  me,  and  ordered  me  out  of  the  room  as  if  I  was  a 


140  THE   LAST   OF    THE    LINE. 

neagre? — hasn't  she  treated  me  with  the  contempt  which  a  man  never  forgives? 

t — hasn't  she but  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  Sir  John,  that  you  know 

my  determination :  disgrace  her,  or  disgrace  yourself! — disclaim  your  marriage, 
or  go  to  jail ! — to  jail,  instead  of  to  parliament ! — to  the  jail,  where  Mr.  Mahon 
can  point,  as  he  passes  it,  at  the  last  of  the  house  of  Clavis !  There  's  the  pen 
and  the  ink  ;  I  don't  force  ye — do  as  ye  please — it 's  no  business  of  mine."  The 
fellow  pushed  some  parchments  and  papers  towards  the  unfortunate  baronet,  and 
gathered  unto  himself  a  pile  of  rouleaus  that  were  filled  with  gold,  while  his  eyes 
gloated  and  glared  on  the  agonized  face  of  his  patron !  "  Sure,  there  's  no  harm 
in  life  in  keeping  a  foreigner  like  her,"  continued  the  brute ;  "  many  has  done 
the  same,  and  will  again.  Send  her  back  to  the  '  olive-groves  of  Spain,'  she  's 
so  fond  of  singing  about,  and " 

"  Peace,  miscreant !"  roared  Sir  John,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  quite  forgetting 
the  time  and  place. 

"Whisht!"  exclaimed  the  coward,  "never  call  names  so  loud — you  know 
I  'm  yer  best  friend.  If  these  sheriff's  officers  hear  ye,  it  will  be  high  mass 
with  us  all?" 

The  baronet  sank  back  in  a  state  of  stupefaction,  and  the  agent  advanced 
towards  him,  pen  in  hand.  Almost  mechanically  Sir  John  took  the  little  instru- 
ment in  his  fingers — its  point  touched  the  paper — even  the  letter  J  was  traced, 
when  Miss  Dorncliftpushed  strongly  against  the  door;  and,  in  the  same  instant, 
both  Sir  John  and  Dacey  were  trembling  in  her  presence.  For  some  moments, 
all  parties  remained  silent — gazing  at  each  other  with  such  varied  expressions 
as  would  be  difficult  to  describe.  With  the  politeness  with  which  Nature  has 
endowed  every  Irishman,  from  the  prince  to  the  peasant,  both  pushed  seats 
towards  the  young  heiress,  which  she  declined ;  at  last  Sir  John  inquired,  as  the 
pen  dropped  from  his  fingers,  "  to  what  circumstance  they  were  indebted  for  the 
honour  of  her  visit  ?" 

"I  came,  Sir  John,"  she  replied — and  the  first  sentence  was  uttered  in  a 
trembling  voice,  which  gained  strength  as  she  proceeded,  "  I  came  to  save  the 
HUSBAND  of  my  friend,  Lady  Clavis,  from  destruction !" 

"  Sir  John's  pride  mounted,  as  he  replied,  stifly  and  formally,  "  that  he  was  not 
aware  to  what  Miss  Dorncliff  could  allude." 

"  This,  Sir  John,"  she  continued,  heedless  of  his  interruption,  "  is  a  bad 
time  for  compliments ;  you  were  about  to  sign  a  paper  repudiating  your  wife, 
in  order  that  that  bad  man  might  relieve  your  present  necessities,  and  save  you 
from  arrest  I  cannot  now  bring  forward  the  proofs  that  I  possess,  of  his 
villanies,  and  the  various  arts  he  has  used  to  dupe  your  understanding,  while 
he  ruined  your  property.  I  pledge  my  word  to  do  so ;  and  to  redeem  all,  even 
the  little  Corner  estate  from  his  clutches,  if,  instead  of  signing  his  paper,  you 
will  sign  mine — and,  to  relieve  your  present  embarrassment,  I  will  tell  down 
guinea  for  guinea  of  the  money  you  are  to  receive  from  that  person  !  Need  I 
say  more  ? — Need  I  urge  the  love  you  have  tried  ? — Need  I  ask  if  you  will  con- 
sign your  child  to  shame  ? — Need  I " 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE.  141 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  and  piercing  shriek  from  Lady  Clavis,  as  with 
one  slrong  effort  she  rushed  from  the  outer  room,  and  threw  herself  into  her 
husband's  arms.  He  was  so  unprepared,  so  astonished,  that  he  did  not  appear 
able  to  support  her,  and  she  sank  gradually  on  her  knees — her  hands  clasped 
— her  hair  falling  in  heavy  masses  over  her  neck  and  shoulders — and  her  eyes 
shining  with  unnatural  brightness,  from  amid  the  bursting  tears  that  flowed  inces- 
santly down  her  cheeks.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  mingled  look  of  hope 
and  anxiety  with  which  she  regarded  Sir  John.  Miss  Dorncliff  advanced  to 
her  side ;  and,  as  her  tall,  commanding  figure  towered  over  the  bending  form  of 
her  friend,  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  baronet's  arm,  and,  in  a  low,  impressive  tone, 
said,  "  Can  you  look  upon  and  crush  her?"  The  appeal  was  decisive.  He  pressed 
his  wife  convulsively  to  his  bosom,  and  it  is  no  disgrace  to  his  manhood  to  con- 
fess that  his  tears  mingled  with  hers. 

"  This  is  all  mighty  fine,"  at  length  exclaimed  Dacey,  whose  vulgar  perplexity 
was  beginning  to  subside  into  assurance,  "  but  I  don't  understand  it." 

"  And  who  supposed  that  the  wallowing  swine  comprehended  the  sweetness 
of  the  ringdove's  note  ?"  replied  Miss  Dorncliff,  casting  upon  him  a  withering 
look  of  contempt  and  scorn. 

"  I  don't  deserve  that  from  you,  Miss,"  said  the  savage,  interpreting  the  expres- 
sion of  her  countenance,  "  for  I  meant  to  help  you  to  a  husband." 

"  Sir  John  Clavis — I  call  upon  you  to  turn  that  man  out  of  the  room !"  replied 
the  lady  ;  "  let  him  and  his  gold  vanish ; — and  trust  for  this  night  to  the  agency 
of  your  wife's  friend  !" 

Bitter  and  deep  were  the  curses  he  muttered,  while  depositing  the  coin  in  his 
leathern  wallet ;  he  would  have  formed  no  unapt  representation  of  Satan  pre- 
paring baits  for  sin — but  foiled  even  in  this  effort. 

"  I  recommend  you,  Dacey,  to  be  silent,"  said  the  baronet. 

"  But  others  won't  be  so,"  growled  forth  the  menial,  as  he  retired.  He  had 
hardly  closed  the  door,  when  he  remembered  the  papers  and  parchments  he  had 
left  on  the  table,  and  returned  with  a  view  of  securing  them.  Miss  Dorncliff 
had  anticipated  the  movement,  and,  placing  her  hand  firmly  on  the  documents, 
signified  so  decidedly  her  intention  of  not  suffering  their  removal,  that,  baffled 
at  all  points,  he  finally  withdrew.  He  could  hardly  have  reached  the  hall,  when 
the  officers,  who  had  been  waiting  outside,  made  their  appearance,  in  no  very 
gentle  manner,  to  make  good  their  seizure.  This,  however,  Miss  Dorncliff  pre- 
vented, by  paying  the  amount  demanded,  and  the  room  was  soon  cleared  of  such 
graceless  company. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  the  generous  girl,  looking  round  her  with  a  happy  and 
cheerful  countenance,  "  now,  Sir  John,  my  document  must  be  signed.  I  claim 
that  as  my  reward.  My  own  lawyer  will  settle  other  matters  at  some  future 
date,  but  that  must  be  done  before  I  either  slumber  or  sleep — the  physician 
demands  her  fee." 

The  baronet  seized  the  pen,  which,  a  short  time  before,  he  had  taken  to 
perform  a  very  different  office,  and  affixed  his  name  to  the  paper  she  presented. 


142  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE. 

After  placing  it  within  her  bosom,  she  remained  sometime  silent,  while  the  vacil- 
lating man  was  endeavouring  to  explain  his  conduct  to  his  wife,  who,  loving 
much,  forgave  all. 

"  It  is  well,"  thought  Miss  Dorncliff,  "  that  such  men  should  be  wedded  to  such 
gentle  women.  My  affection  would  always  expire  with  my  esteem  ;  but  now,  she 
loves  and  believes,  as  if  he  had  never  been  about  to  ruin  her  reputation,  and  to 
stigmatize  for  ever  their  innocent  child  !  There  must  be  something  mysterious 
in  this  love,  which  I  cannot  comprehend."  She  could,  however,  comprehend 
the  heights  and  depths  of  the  noblest  friendship.  Her  sleep  that  night  was 
light  and  refreshing;  and  it  was  not  till  the  morning  was  far  advanced,  that 
the  shouts  and  bustle  of  an  Irish  election  woke  her  to  consciousness  and 
activity.  ' 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Dacey's  bad  but  enterprizing  spirit  would  rest 
composedly,  under  detection  and  consequent  exposure.  He  conjectured,  truly, 
that  Miss  Dorncliff,  through  some  means,  which  at  present  he  could  only  suspect, 
had  obtained  information  of  his  intentions,  and  was  prepared  to  render  null  and 
void  his  basely-earned  bargains  and  nefarious  schemes.  He  was  aware  that, 
until  the  election  was  over,  no  investigation  could  be  systematically  gone  into ; 
and  he  hit  upon  a  cold  and  villanous  design  to  prevent  the  inquiry  he  had  so 
much  reason  to  dread.  He  knew  well  the  character  of  the  opposing  candidate 
— a  fearless,  careless,  man — vigorous  and  imprudent — 


-"  Jealous  of*  honour, 


Sudden  and  quick  in  quarrel ;" 

who  had  fought  more  duels  than  any  man  in  the  county;  and  was  as  often 
called  "  Bullet  Mahon,"  as  "  Barry  Mahon."  He  existed  only  in  an  atmosphere 
of  democracy ;  and  his  hot,  impatient  aspect,  firm  tread,  blustering  voice,  and 
arrogant  familiarity,  formed  a  very  striking  contrast  to  the  polished,  weak,  but 
gentlemanly,  bearing  of  Sir  John  Clavis.  It  was  not  at  all  unlikely  that  a  quarrel 
would  ensue,  before  the  termination  of  the  election,  and  many  had  even  betted 
upon  it.  With  the  generality  of  Irishmen,  it  would  have  been  unavoidable. 
But,  though  Sir  John  had  never  shown  the  white  feather,  he  was  a  decidedly 
peaceable  man — and  was  known  to  be  so.  Dacey,  however,  resolved  not  to 
trust  to  chance  in  the  matter,  and,  on  the  morning  of  the  second  day,  he  was 
closeted  with  Mahon  for  nearly  an  hour.  When  the  candidates  appeared  on  the 
ill-constructed  hustings,  to  greet  their  respective  constituents,  it  appeared  evident 
that  Mahon  was  overboiling  with  rage  at  some  known  or  supposed  injury.  Sir 
John's  address  was  mild,  and  more  than  usually  facetious — a  style  better  under- 
stood and  appreciated  in  England  than  in  the  sister  island ;  he  alluded  to,  without 
exulting  at,  the  favourable  state  of  the  poll ;  and,  after  a  short  and  cheering 
exhortation  to  his  friends,  resumed  his  seat 

When  Mahon  prepared  to  address  the  crowd,  he  swung  his  body  uneasily 
from  side  to  side,  looking,  when  wrapt  up  in  his  huge  white  coat,  as  the  per- 
sonification of  those  unhappy  polar  bears  who  suffer  confinement  in  our 


THE    LAST    OF   THE   LINE.  143 

menageries.  At  last,  elevating  his  right  arm,  as  if  threatening  total  annihilation 
to  all  who  even  differed  from  him  in  opinion,  he  began  one  of  those  inflammatory 
addresses  that  have  been  followed  up  by  so  many  second-rate  agitators  in  modern 
times ;  he  talked  of  the  distresses  of  the  people,  until  those  who  had  just  eaten 
a  hearty  dinner  imagined  they  were  literally  starving — and  assured  them  so 
often  that  they  were  in  a  debased  state  of  bondage,  that  at  last  they  fancied 
they  were  sinking  under  their  fetters'  weight.  "  I  would  have  you  beware,"  he 
said,  exerting  to  their  utmost  power  his  stentorian  lungs,  "  I  would  have  you  a/7, 
green  as  well  as  orange,  beware  of  those  who  would  purchase  your  votes  by 
bribery  !  If  a  man  gives  a  bribe,  he  will  take  one  ! — and  I  wonder  my  opponent 
is  not  ashamed — /  say,  ashamed — to  show  his  face  here,  after  the  conduct  he 
has  practised  in  private  !" 

Sir  John  Clavis  called  upon  Mr.  Mahon  to  explain. 

Mr.  Barry  Mahon  said  he  did  not  come  there  to  explain — he  came  to  speak 
— and  speak  he  would — no  descendant  of  an  imposter  should  put  him  down — if 
Sir  John  Clavis  wished  for  explanation,  he  could  seek  it  elsewhere — if  he  did 
not  do  so,  he  was  a  COWARD  ! 

The  language  had  grown  too  violent,  or,  as'  the  interfering  parties  called  it, 
"  too  warm,"  even  for  an  Irish  election ;  and  the  friends  of  both  candidates 
endeavoured  to  put  an  end  to  it,  or,  at  all  events,  to  conclude  it  in  another 
place.  As  Mr.  Mahon  refused  to  make  an  apology,  or  even  give  any  explana- 
tion, it  became  necessary,  according  to  the  received  and  approved  code  of 
honour,  for  Sir  John  Clavis  to  send  a  message  to  the  gentleman  who  had  so 
grossly  insulted  him. 

It  was  sent,  but  Clavis  so  worded  it  as  to  leave  the  matter  open  to  apology. 
This,  however,  was  not  taken  advantage  of,  and  a  "meeting"  for  the  next  morning 
was,  of  course,  agreed  upon. 

Since  their  reconciliation,  poor  Lady  Clavis  had  been  suffering  severely  from 
agitation ;  her  mind  and  body  had  received  a  severe  shock ;  and  though  the 
happy  termination,  through  her  friend's  kind  sacrifice,  had  set  her  trembling  heart 
at  ease,  her  health  had  not  yet  mastered  the  struggle ;  she  had  been  confined  to 
her  chamber,  unceasingly  attended  by  Miss  Dorncliff. 

About  seven  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  distressing  quarrel  between  the 
candidates,  Lady  Clavis  had  just  requested  her  friend  to  open  the  window, 
that  she  might  feel  the  breath  of  heaven  on  her  fevered  cheek,  even  for  a  few 
moments ;  her  fine  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  setting  of  a  rich  autumnal  sun, 
which  shed  its  glories  over  the  scattered  houses,  and  converted  them  into 
dwellings  of  molten  gold.  She  was  reclining  on  a  couch  formed  of  the  high- 
backed  chairs  of  the  rude  apartment,  and,  as  her  husband  entered,  she  greeted 
him  with  inquiries  as  to  the  state  of  the  poll.  Miss  Dorncliff  thought  within 
herself,  that  he  looked  pale  and  agitated,  but  did  not  allude  to  the  circumstance. 
He  was  hardly  seated,  when  a  servant  placed  a  note  in  Lady  Clavis's  hand ; 
she  just  broke  the  wafer,  and,  glancing  at  the  contents,  burst  into  tears ;  Sir 
John  perused  it  with  almost  the  same  agitation ;  and  the  intelligence  it  con- 


144  THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE. 

veyed  was  well  calculated  to  excite  sorrow,  for  it  said  that  the  little  Madelina 
had  been  taken  dangerously  ill,  and  Mary  Conway,  the  writer,  entreated  Lady 
Clavis,  "  for  God's  sake,  to  come  home,  if  she  wished  to  see  the  child  alive.'' 
The  mother  lost  no  time  in  her  preparations;  she  thought  not. of  herself;  and 
to  Sir  John,  under  existing  circumstances,  her  departure  was  a  relief:  he 
kissed  and  handed  her  into  the  carriage ;  the  door  was  shut,  and  the  coachman 
preparing  to  drive  off,  when  Sir  John  called  him  to  stop.  The  evening  sun  had 
set,  and  the  night  wind  was  blowing  sharply  in  the  faces  of  the  horses ;  the 
baronet  pushed  the  footman  away,  and,  unfastening  the  door,  let  the  steps  down, 
so  that  he  could  kneel  upon  them. 

"  Madelina,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  agitated  tone,  and  in  her  own  dear  native 
tongue — "  Madelina,  do  you  from  your  heart  forgive  me,  for  the  unkindness  I 
have  shown — for  the  injury  which,  under  the  influence  of  a  villain,  I  would  have 
done  you,  and  our  innocent  child  ?" 

"  My  soul's  life,"  she  replied,  "  why  do  you  ask  ?  I  cannot  think  of  you  and 
injury  at  the  same  time ;  from  my  heart,  I  have  forgiven  you."  She  bent  her 
head  forward  to  kiss  her  husband,  and  the  wind  blew  one  of  the  long  locks  of 
her  raven  hair  across  his  face — he  seized  upon  it,  as  on  a  treasure. 

"  I  must  keep  this  to  wear  next  my  heart  till "  "  we  meet  again,"  he 

would  have  added,  but  the  sentence  remained  unfinished,  while  he  severed  the 
ringlet  from  the  rest ;  he  then  extended  his  hand  to  Miss  Dorncliff,  and  continued, 
even  in  a  more  broken  tone,  "  You  have  been  her  friend,  as  well  as  my  preserver 
— I  commit  her  to  your  care !" 

"  How  kind  and  affectionate  he  has  grown !"  observed  Lady  Clavis,  as  the 
carriage  drove  on ;  "  when  this  dreadful  election  is  over,  and  our  darling  reco- 
vered, we  shall  be  so  happy ! — and  to  you,  my  dear,  dear  friend — my  more  than 
sister — I  owe  all  this ;  his  first  love  was  not  so  sweet  to  me  as  his  returning 
affection ;"  and,  overcome  with  many  contending  feelings,  the  gentle  creature 
sank  into  a  troubled  sleep. 

The  calm  was  but  the  prelude  to  a  storm.  How  often,  when  our  hopes  are 
highest,  and  our  certainties  of  happiness  seem  firmest,  is  the  thunder-cloud 
gathering  over  us  that  will  soon  ruin  both !  Even  at  the  very  moment  when 
the  wife  had  the  surest  confidence  in  days  of  enjoyment  and  repose  to  come, 
and  the  friend  was  luxuriating  over  the  consciousness  of  a  good  deed  done,  they 
were  on  the  very  brink  of  a  precipice,  from  which  there  was,  alas  !  no  retreat. 
Alas !  still  more,  that  a  vile  hand  should  have  had  the  power  to  force  them  over 
it.  But  thus  it  is — 


Sorrow  and  guilt, 


Like  two  old  pilgrims  guised,  but  quick  and  keen 
Of  vision,  evermore  plod  round  the  world, 
To  spy  out  pleasant  spots,  and  loving  hearts  ; 
And  never  lack  a  villian's  ready  hand 
To  work  their  purpose  on  them." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE.  145 

The  roads  were  heavy,  and  the  lumbering  carriage  and  fatted  horses  little 
accustomed  to  hasty  journeyings ;  they  had  proceeded  at  the  rate  of  three  miles 
or  three  miles  and  a  half,  the  hour,  and  were  within  five  miles  of  the  Abbey, 
when  their  progress  was  arrested  by  a  figure  on  horseback  seizing  the  reins, 
and  commanding  them  to  stop.  "  God  be  thanked  for  his  mercy !"  ejaculated  a 
well-known  voice ;  "  by  his  blessin'  it  '11  not  be  too  late,  and  he  may  be 
saved  yet." 

"  Who  saved  ? — what  do  you  mean,  Mary  ?"  eagerly  demanded  Miss  Dorncliff, 
for  Lady  Clavis  was  not  sufficiently  collected  to  make  any  inquiry,  and  only 
looked  wildly  from  the  carriage-window. 

"  The  masther !  the  masther  ! — turn  the  horses'  heads,  Leary,  as  ye  value  sal- 
vation, or  the  priest's  blessin' !" 

"  Explain  first,  Mary,  for  this  is  madness,"  replied  Miss  Dorncliff;  "  where — 
how  is  the  child  ?" 

"  Here,"  she  replied,  unfolding  her  cloak,  and  placing  the  smiling  cherub  on 
its  mother's  lap.  "  I  knew  misthress  'ud  never  believe  it  was  alive  and  well, 
when  I  hard  o'  the  trick  just  to  get  ye  all  out  o'  the  way,  my  lady — and  you  too, 
Miss,  who  unriddled  so  much  before,  that  he  thought  you  'd  be  at  it  again — the 
villain !  The  short  an'  the  long  of  it  is,  that  ould  rascal  tould  some  lies  to  the 
other  mimber  that  wants  to  be,  and,  on  the  strength  of  them  lies,  him,  the  other 
man,  insulted  masther  forenent  the  people ;  and  they  'd  a  row ;  and  the  upshot 
of  it  is  that  they  're  to  fight  a  jewil  to-morrow  morning' — Lord  save  us! 
— like  Turks  or  Frenchmen;  and  'twas  he  wrote  the  note — as  one  let 
on  to  me,  who  rode  a  good  horse  to  tell  it — and,  troth,  grass  didn't  grow 
under  my  feet  either.  But  turn,  turn! — we'll  may-be  get  a  help  of  horses  on 
the  road ;  I  '11  gallop  on  and  have  'em  ready,  though  it 's  as  much  as  we  can  to 
reach  town  by  daylight." 

The  servants  urged  the  jaded  animals  to  their  utmost  speed ;  and  prayers 
mingled  with  the  tears  Lady  Clavis  shed,  as  she  pressed  her  child  to  her  bosom. 
Miss  Dorncliff  endeavoured  to  give  what  she  did  not  possess — hope.  She 
knew  that  Barry  Mahon's  bullet  was  unerring;  and,  from  time  to  time,  she  let 
down  the  front  glass  to  cheer  forward  the  anxious  coachman.  The  horses 
Mary  procured  on  the  road  were  more  a  hinderance  than  a  help,  so  restive  and 
ignorant  were  they  as  to  carriage-harness.  Never  did  culprits,  who  watch  for, 
yet  dread,  the  coming  day,  feel  more  bitterly  than  they  did  when  the  first  thin 
stream  of  light  appeared  on  the  horizon ;  the  stars,  one  by  one,  faded  from 

their  gaze ;  and  at  last  the  spire  of  the  church  of  W appeared  like  a  dark 

speck  on  the  clearing  sky. 

"  Forward,  forward,  my  good  Leary !"  said  Miss  Dorncliff;  "  there 's  the 
church-steeple — hasten  now,  and  reward  shall  not  be  wanting." 

"  It  isn't  the  reward — it 's  the  masther  I  'm  thinking  of,"  replied  the  faithful 
fellow.  "  If  we  had  the  luck  to  be  on  the  Dublin  road  itself,  there  'd  be  some 

chance  of  help;  but  here "  He  groaned  audibly,  and  by  words  of  encou- 

19 


146  THE    LAST    OP    THE    LINE. 

ragement,  and  a  more  liberal  application  of  the  whip,  forced  the  horses  into 
something  like  a  trot 

"  I  can  see  the  masts  of  the  vessels  that  are  lying  in  the  harbour,"  exclaimed 
Mary ;  "  for  God's  sake,  hasten,  Leary  !" 

"  I  may  as  well  throw  down  the  reins,"  replied  Leary ;  "  They  can  only  crawl ; 
this  one's  sides  are  cut  with  the  whip,  and  that  one's  fallen  lame,  too !" 

"  I  could  walk  faster  than  the  horses  can  go  now,"  said  Miss  Dorncliff. 

"  And  so  could  I,  and  we  will  walk,"  replied  Lady  Clavis,  rousing  all  her 
energies. 

"  Do,  do,  my  dearest  friend,"  retorted  Miss  Dorncliff,  "  for  1  see  figures  on  the 
bridge  that  cannot  be  mistaken ;  and  if  we  could  only  get  there  in  time,  all  could 
be  explained." 

Lady  Clavis  sprung  from  the  carriage  with  a  promptness  that  astonished 
her  friend.  She  folded  her  child  closely  to  her  bosom,  and  took  the  path,  across 
some  meadows,  which  led,  by  a  nearer  way  than  the  carriage-road,  to  the  field 
that,  for  centuries^  had  been  the  duellist's  meeting-place.  The  agony  of  her 
mind  may  be  imagined,  but  cannot  be  described.  There  was  her  husband — 
every  step  rendered  him  more  visible — she  pressed  onward — and  her  child  was 
rocked  by  the  panting  of  her  bosom.  The  ground  is  measured — she  flew  with- 
out disturbing  the  dew  that  trembled  on  the  grass — repeatedly  she  raised  and 
waved  her  arm,  eager  to  arrest  attention — in  vain ! 

Man  to  man  stood  opposed — not  in  spirited  combat,  but  with  cold  murdering 
designs  on  each  other.  She  screamed  loud  and  fearfully,  and  her  scream  was 
answered  by  a  fiendish  laugh,  which  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  hollow  of  a 
blighted  tree  that  stood  in  her  pathway  ;  as  she  passed  it,  the  bad  face  of  Dacey 
glared  upon  her  with  bitter  exultation.  She  shrank  involuntarily  from  his  ken, 
and  the  report  of  a  pistol  struck  upon  her  ear  with  appalling  distinctness ;  it 
was  followed  by  another,  and  the  next  minute  saw  her  kneeling  by  the  side  of 
him  whom  she  had  loved  with  all  the  fervour  of  the  glowing  south,  and  all  the 
fidelity  of  our  colder  climes ;  the  innocent  child  crept  from  her  arms  over  his 
bosom,  and  pressed  her  little  lips  to  those  of  her  dead  father.  Lady  Clavis 
motioned  off  the  people,  who  wished  to  remove  the  body,  and,  with  fearful 
calmness,  unbottoned  the  bosom  of  his  shirt,  and  looked  intently  on  the  wound 
and  the  oozing  blood.  She  attempted  to  unfasten  it  still  more ;  but  started 
back  as  if  some  new  horror  had  been  displayed,  when  the  tress  of  hair  he  had 
severed  from  her  head  the  night  before,  appeared  literally  resting  on  his  heart. 
Tears  did  not  dim  her  eyes,  which  became  fixed  and  motionless ;  and  her  whole 
figure  assumed  a  frightful  rigidity.  The  scene  was  even  too  much  for  Ellen 
DornclifTs  firmness ;  she  fainted  while  endeavouring  to  take  the  child  from  the 
remains  of  its  ill-starred  parent. 

"  IT  's  THE  LAST  OF  THE  LINE,  sure  enough !"  exclaimed  an  old  keener,  who  had 
watched  the  melancholy  proceeding ;  "  for  a  girl,  and  such  a  girl,  if  report  says 
true,  has  no  hoult  on  the  land ;  ill  got — ill  gone  !" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    LINE. 


147 


My  tale  is  told,  and  many  will  recognize  it  as  over  true.  Lady  Clavis's  intel- 
lect never  recovered  the  shock  it  received,  and  some  years  afterwards  she  died 
in  a  convent  in  Catalonia.  The  property  of  Clavis  passed  into  other  hands ;  and 
those  who  obtained  it  were  generous  and  honourable  enough  to  settle  upon  Lady 
Clavis  and  her  child  a  larger  income  than  they  would  have  been  entitled  to,  had 
there  even  been  legal  proof  of  the  marriage,  which,  it  was  generally  supposed, 
could  not  be  obtained,  or  Miss  Dorncliff  would  have  procured  it.  So  perfect, 
however,  was  the  evidence  she  had  collected  of  Dacey's  villany,  that  he  was 
never  suffered  to  enjoy  his  ill-gotten  wealth.  I  remember  him  in  extreme  old 
age — a  hated,  mischievous,  drivelling  idiot.  Mary  and  Benjy  were  "  as  happy," 
to  use  the  tale-telling  phrase,  "  as  the  days  were  long ;"  and  Miss  Dorncliff — 
who  was  a  living  refutation  of  all  the  scandal  ever  heaped  upon  the  most  maligned 
class  of  persons  called  old  maids — received,  in  her  declining  age,  more  than  even 
a  child's  attention  from  Madelina  Clavis. 


WE'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT. 


ROM  this  simple  sentence  "  we  '11  see  about  it !"  has 
arisen  more  evil  to  Ireland  than  any  person,  igno- 
rant of  the  strange  union  of  impetuosity  and  pro- 
crastination my  countrymen  exhibit,  could  well 
believe.  They  are  sufficiently  prompt  and  energetic 
where  their  feelings  are  concerned,  but,  in  matters 
of  business,  they  almost  invariably  prefer  seeing 
about,  to  DOING. 

I  shall  not  find  it  difficult  to  illustrate  this  observa- 
tion : — from  the  many  examples  of  its  truth,  in  high 
and  in  low  life,  I  select  Philip  Garraty. 

Philip,  and  Philip's  wife,  and  Philip's  children, 
and  all  the  house  of  Garraty,  are  employed  from 
morning  till  night  in  seeing  about  everything,  and, 
consequently,  in  doing  nothing  There  is  Philip — a 
tall,  handsome,  good-humoured  fellow,  of  about  five- 
cm 


"WE'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT."  149 

and-thirty,  with  broad,  lazy-looking  shoulders,  and  a  smile  perpetually  lurking 
about  his  mouth,  or  in  his  bright  hazel  eyes,  the  picture  of  indolence  and  kindly 
feeling.  There  he  is,  leaning  over  what  was  once  a  five-barred  gate,  and  leads 
to  the  hag-yard ;  his  blue  worsted  stockings  full  of  holes,  which  "  the  suggan," 
twisted  half-way  up  the  well-formed  leg,  fails  to  conceal ;  while  his  brogues  (to 
use  his  own  words),  if  they  do.  let  the  water  in,  let  it  out  again.  With  what 
unstudied  elegance  does  he  roll  that  knotted  twine,  and  then  unrol  it ;  varying 
his  occupation  by  kicking  the  stones,  that  once  formed  a  wall,  into  the  stagnant 
pool,  scarcely  big  enough  for  full-grown  ducks  to  sail  in. 

But  let  us  take  a  survey  of  the  premises. 

The  dwelling-house  is  a  long  rambling  abode,  much  larger  than  the  generality 
of  those  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  small  Irish  farmers ;  for  Philip  rents  a  respectable 
farm,  and  ought  to  be  "  well  to  do  in  the  world."  The  dwelling  looks  very 
comfortless,  notwithstanding :  part  of  the  thatch  is  much  decayed,  and  the  rank 
weeds  and  damp  moss  nearly  cover  it ;  the  door-posts  are  only  united  to  the 
wall  by  a  few  scattered  portions  of  clay  and  stone,  and  the  door  itself  is  hanging 
but  by  one  hinge ;  the  window-frames  shake  in  the  passing  wind,  and  some  of 
the  compartments  are  stuffed  with  the  crown  of  a  hat,  or  a  "  lock  of  straw ;" 
very  unsightly  objects.  At  the  opposite  side  of  the  swamp  is  the  hag-yard  gate, 
where  a  broken  line  of  alternate  palings  and  wall  betokens  that  it  had  been  for- 
merly fenced  in ;  the  commodious  barn  is  almost  roofless,  and  the  other  sheds 
pretty  much  in  the  same  condition ;  the  pig-sty  is  deserted  by  the  grubbing  lady 
and  her  grunting  progeny,  who  are  too  fond  of  an  occasional  repast  in  the  once- 
cultivated  garden  to  remain  in  their  proper  abode ;  the  listless  turkeys,  and,  con- 
tented, half-fatted,  geese,  live  at  large  and  on  the  public ;  but  the  turkeys,  with 
all  their  shyness  and  modesty,  have  the  best  of  it,  for  they  mount  the  ill-built 
stacks,  and  select  the  grain  a  plaisir. 

"  Give  you  good  morrow,  Mr.  Philip ;  we  have  had  showery  weather  lately." 

"  Och,all  manner  o'  joy  to  ye,  my  lady  ! — and  sure  ye  Ml  walk  in,  and  sit  down ; 
my  woman  will  be  proud  to  see  ye.  I  'm  sartin  we  '11  have  the  rain  soon  agin, 
for  it's  everywhere,  like  bad  luck;  and  my  throat 's  sore  wid  hurishing  thim 
pigs  out  o'  the  garden — sorra  a  thing  can  I  do  all  day  for  watching  thim." 

"  Why  do  you  not  mend  the  door  of  the  sty  ?" 

"  True  for  ye,  ma'am  dear ;  so  I  would  if  I  had  the  nails ;  and  I  've  been 
threat'ning  to  step  down  to  Mickey  Bow,  the  smith,  to  ask  him  to  see  about  it." 

"  I  -hear  you  've  had  a  fine  crop  of  wheat,  Philip." 

"  Thank  God  for  all  things !  You  may  say  that ;  we  had,  my  lady,  a  fine 
crop ;  but  I  have  always  the  height  of  ill  luck  somehow ;  upon  my  sowkins  (and 
that's  the  hardest  oath  I  ever  swear),  the  turkeys  have  had  the  most  of  it:  but  I 
mean  to  see  about  setting  it  up  safe,  to-morrow." 

"  But,  Philip,!  thought  you  had  sold  the  wheat,  standing." 

"  It  was  all  one  as  sould;  only  it's  a  bad  world,  ma'am  dear,  and  I  've  no 
luck.  Says  the  steward  to  me,  says  he,  I  like  to  do  things  like  a  man  of  busi- 
ness ;  so,  Mister  Garraty,  just  draw  up  a  bit  of  an  agreement  that  you  deliver 


150  "WE'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT." 

over  the  wheat-field  to  me,  on  sich  a  day,  standing  as  it  is  for  sich  a  sum ;  and 
I  '11  sign  it  for  ye,  and  thin  there  can  be  no  mistake — only  let  me  have  it  by  this 
day  week.  Well,  to  be  sure,  I  came  home  full  o'  my  good  luck,  and  I  tould  the 
wife ;  and,  on  the  strength  of  it,  she  must  have  a  new  gown.  And  sure,  says 
she,  Miss  Hennessy  is  just  come  from  Dublin,  wid  a  shop-full  of  goods ;  and,  on 
account  that  she 's  my  brother's  sister-in-law's  first  cousin,  she '11  let  me  have, 
the  first  sight  o'  the  things,  and  I  can  take  my  pick,  and  we  '11  have  plinty  of 
time  to  see  about  the  agreement  to-morrow.  Well,  I  don't  know  how  it  was,  but 
the  next  day  we  had  no  paper,  nor  ink,  nor  pens  in  the  house ;  I  meant  to  send 
the  gossoon  to  Miss  Hertnessy's  for  all — but  forgot  the  pens.  So,  when  I  was 
seeing  about  the  'greement,  I  bethought  of  the  ould  gander ;  and  while  I  was 
pulling  as  beautiful  a  pen  as  ever  ye  laid  yer  two  eyes  upon,  out  of  his  wing,  he 
tattered  my  hand  with  his  bill  in  such  a  manner  that  sorra  a  pen  I  could  hould 
for  three  days.  Well,  at  last  I  wrote  it  out  like  print,  and  takes  it  myself  to  the 
steward. — Good  evening  to  you,  Mr.  Garraty,  says  he.  Good  evening  kindly, 
sir,  says  I ;  I  've  got  the  'greement  here,  sir,  says  I,  pulling  it  out,  as  I  thought 
— but — I  onlycotch  the  paper  it  was  wrapt  in,  to  keep  it  from  the  dirt  of  the 
tobacco,  that  was  loose  in  my  pocket  for  want  of  a  box ;  so  I  turned  out  what 
little  bits  o'  things  I  had  in  it,  and  there  was  a  grate  hole  that  ye  might  drive  all 
the  parish  rats  through  at  the  bottom,  which  the  wife  promised  to  see  about  mend- 
ing as  good  as  six  months  before.  Well,  I  saw  the  sneer  on  his  ugly  mouth  (for 
he  's  an  Englishman),  and  I  turned  it  off  with  a  laugh,  and  said  air  holes  were 
comfortable  in  hot  weather,  and  sich-like  jokes,  and  that  I  'd  go  home  and  make 
another  'greement.  'Greement!  for  what? — says  he,  laying  down  his  grate 
outlandish  pipe.  Whew  !  may-be  ye  don't  know,  says  I.  Not  I,  says  he.  The 
wheat-field,  says  I.  Why,  says  he,  didn't  I  tell  you  then,  that  you  must  bring 
the  'greement  to  me  by  that  day  week? — and  that  was  (by  the  same  token 
pulling  a  red  memorandum  book  out  of  his  pocket),  let  me  see — exactly  this  day 
three  wreeks.  Do  you  think, Mr.  Garraty,  he  goes  on,  that  I  was  going  to  wait 
upon  you?  I  don't  lose  my  papers  in  the  Irish  fashion.  Well,  that  last  set 
me  up — and  I  had  the  ill  luck  to  knock  him  down;  and,  the  coward,  what  does 
he  do  but  takes  the  law  o'  me — and  I  was  cast,  and  lost  the  sale  of  the  wheat, 
and  wras  ordered  to  pay  ever  so  much  money :  well,  I  didn't  care  to  pay  it  then, 
but  gave  an  engagement ;  and  I  meant  to  see  about  it — but  forgot ;  and,  all  in  a 
jiffy,  came  a  thing  they  call  an  execution — and,  to  stop  the  cant,  I  was  forced 
to  borrow  money  from  that  tame  negur,  the  exciseman — and  it 's  a  terrible  case 
to  be  paying  interest  for  it  still." 

"  But,  Philip,  you  might  give  up  or  dispose  of  a  part  of  your  farm.  I  know  you 
could  get  a  good  sum  of  money  for  that  rich  meadow  by  the  river." 

"True  for  ye,  ma'am  dear,and  I've  been  seeing  about  it  for  a  long  time,  but 
somehow  I  have  no  luck.  Just  as  ye  came  up,  I  was  thinking  to  myself  that  the 
gale-day  is  passed,  and  all  one  as  before  ;  yarra  a  pin's  worth  have  I  for  the  rint  ; 
and  the  landlord  wants  it  as  bad  as  I  do,  though  it 's  a  shame  to  say  that  of  a 
gintleman ;  for,  jist  as  he  was  seeing  about  some  old  custodium,  or  something  of 


"  WE'LL  SEE  ABOUT  IT."  151 

the  sort,  that  had  been  hanging  over  the  estate  ever  since  he  came  to  it,  the 
sheriffs  officers  put  executioners  in  the  house ;  and  I  am  sartin  he  '11  be  racking 
me  for  the  money ;  indeed,  the  ould  huntsman  tould  me  as  much ;  but  I  must 
see  about  it :  not,  indeed,  that  it 's  much  good,  for  I  have  no  luck." 

"  Let  me  beg  of  you,  Philip,  not  to  take  such  an  idea  into  your  head ;  do  not 
lose  a  moment :  you  will  be  utterly  ruined  if  you  do.  Why  not  apply  to  your 
father-in-law  ? — he  is  able  to  assist  you ;  for  at  present  you  only  suffer  from  tem- 
porary embarrassment." 

"  True  for  ye,  my  lady  ;  and,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  I  '11  see  about  it" 

"  Then  go  directly,  Philip." 

"  Directly !  I  can't,  ma'am  dear,  on  account  of  the  pigs ;  and  sorra  a  one  I 
have  but  myself  to  keep  them  out  of  the  cabbages ;  for  I  let  the  woman  and  the 
grawls  go  to  the  pattery  at  Killaun  ;  it 's  little  pleasure  they  see,  the  craturs !" 

"  But  your  wife  did  not  hear  the  huntsman's  story  ?" 

"  Och  !  ay,  did  she  ;  but,  unless  she  could  give  me  a  sheaf  o'  bank  notes,  where 
would  be  the  good  of  her  staying  ? — but  I  '11  see  about  it." 

"  Immediately,  then,  Philip ;  think  upon  the  ruin  that  may  come — nay,  that 
must  come,  if  you  neglect  this  matter :  your  wife,  too — your  family  reduced 
from  comfort  to  starvation — your  home  desolate — " 

"  Asy,  my  lady  ! — don't  be  after  breaking  my  heart  intirely  ;  thank  God,  I  have 
seven  as  fine  flahulagh  children  as  ever  peeled  pratee,  and  all  under  twelve  years 
ould  :  and  sure  I  'd  lay  down  my  life  tin  times  over  for  every  one  o'  them :  and 
to-morrow  for  sartin — no — to-morrow — the  hurling;  I  can't  to-morrow  ;  but  the 
day  after,  if  I  'm  a  living  man,  /'//  see  about  it." 

Poor  Philip !  his  kindly  feelings  were  valueless,  because  of  his  unfortunate 
habit.  Would  that  this  were  the  only  example  I  could  produce  of  the  ill  effects 
of  that  dangerous  little  sentence — "  I'll  see  about  it  /"  Oh,  that  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  the  fairest  island  that  ever  heaved  its  green  bosom  above  the  surface 
of  the  ocean,  would  arise  and  be  doing  what  is  to  be  done,  and  never  again  rest 
contented  with  "  SEEING  ABOUT  IT  !" 


THE  BANNOW  POSTMAN. 

E  'S  taking  his  own  time  this  evening,  I  '11  say  that ; 
for  the  sun 's  as  good  as  set,  and  no  sign  of  him  yet. 
&•  Can  you  spy  him  out  ?" 

"No, colleen;  how  d'ye  think  my  ould  eyes  could 
see  him  whin  yours  can't  ?  But,  Anty,  honey,  ye  're 
mighty  unasy  about  the  postman ;  d'ye  expict  a  new 
riban',  or  a  piece  o'  tape,  or  some  sugar-candy,  or — 
a  love  letther,  Anty  ?  Oh  !  Anty,  Anty  ! — don't  blush 
after  that  fashion ;  ould  as  my  eyes  are,  I  can  see  yer 
rosy  cheek  getting  quite  scarlet." 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what,  Grey  Lambert,"  replied  the  lassie 
to  the  old  man,  who  was  literally  leaning  on  "  the  top 
of  his  staff,"  under  the  shadow  of  the  walls  of  a  singu- 
larly fine  and  perfect  castle  of  ancient  days ;  "  1  '11 
jist  tell  ye,  it  '11  be  long  enough  afore  I  '11  come  to  see 
d  ye  agin,  out  o'  pure  good-nature,  in  yer  unchristian-like 


THE    BA.NNOW    POSTMAN.  153 

ould  place,  if  ye  talk  afther  that  fashion  to  a  young  crature  like  me,  that  niver 
turned  to  the  like  ;  d'ye  think  I  've  no  dacency  ?  Sure  ye  're  ould  enough  to 
forget  love  letthers,  any  way." 

"  That 's  true,  Anty ;  an  ould  man  of  threescore  and  sixteen  hasn't  much 
to  do  wid  what  are  called  love  letthers ;  but,  may-be,  there 's  a  differ  betwixt 
love  letthers  and  letthers  o'  love ;  and  sure  there  's  one  still  that  sinds  that  last 
to  his  poor  grandfather ;  and  from  beyant  the  salt  seas  too." 

"  Well,  't  is  a  comfort,  sure  enough ;  but  I  often  wonder  that  ye  a'n't  affeard 
to  stay  in  such  a  place  as  this,  widout  anything  wid  ye,  but  Bang,  the  baste, 
that 's  almost  as  ould  as  yerself — poor  Bang  !"  And  Bang  pushed  his  nose  into 
Anty's  hand. 

There  was  something  picturesque  in  the  appearance  of  the  pair,  who  awaited 
the  postman's  coming — for  such  was  really  the  case  ;  the  young  maiden  expected 
a  lover's  letter ;  the  aged  man  hoped  for  a  remembering  token  from  a  solitary 
descendant.  "  Grey  Lambert,"  as  he  was  called,  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  a 
corner  of  the  castle  under  whose  shadow  they  stood — the  castle  of  Coolhull — 
and  no  entreaty  could  induce  him  to  leave  the  lonely  dwelling.  He  was  a  sin- 
gular, but  a  very  fine-looking,  person ;  wore  neither  hat  nor  cap ;  never  cut 
either  his  beard  or  hair,  which  were  purely,  perfectly,  white,  and  flowed  over 
his  shoulders,  and  down  his  breast,  even  below  a  leather  girdle  that  encircled 
his  coarse  frieze  wrapping  coat ;  his  feet  were  bare ;  his  forehead  high  and  bald  ; 
his  dress  clean,  betokening  singularity,  but  not  poverty ;  and  he  had  been  a 
traveller  in  his  youtH — a  sailor — a  soldier — some  said  a  pirate  ;  but  that,  I  firmly 
assert,  never  could  have  been  the  case,  for  Lambert  was  the  gentlest  of  old  men ; 
children  and  animals  (who  seem  to  have  an  instinctive  dread  of  bad  people)  all 
loved  him ;  and  on  Sunday  evenings  the  village  urchins,  and  their  little  cur  dogs, 
visited  him  in  the  castle,  or  sat  at  his  feet  on  the  green  sward,  while  he  recounted 
tales  and  adventures  of  other  lands. 

Anty  was  a  merry,  laughing,  blue-eyed  lass,  somewhat  short,  and  without  one 
good  feature  in  her  face ;  yet  the  gipsy  was  esteemed  pretty.  It  was  really  very 
provoking — she  was  anything  but  pretty,  and  yet  it  was  absolutely  impossible  to 
look  on  her  face  and  think  so ;  she  had  such  coaxing  smiles,  and  that  heartfelt 
charm — a  sweet,  low  voice — "  an  excellent  thing  in  woman ;"  and  so  many  "  ah, 
do's,"  and  "  ah,  don'ts ;"  and  a  trick  of  blushing — and  blushes,  stealing  over  a 
pure  white  skin,  are,  it  must  be  confessed,  very  agreeable  things  indeed  to  look 
upon ;  then  there  was  a  cheerfulness,  a  joyousness  about  her,  perfectly  irresistible; 
at  wake  or  pattern  she  had  all  the  best  boys  at  her  command,  and  how  she 
laughed  at  them !  But  I  may  affirm — now  that  she  is  not  before  me — the  little 
hussy  was  anything  but  pretty. 

Bang  was  certainly  a  venerable  relic  of  canine  antiquity — tall  and  grey, 
haughty  and  stately,  of  royal  Danish  descent,  and  his  courtesies  had  an  air  of 
kingly  condescension ;  when  he  noticed  even  the  bettermost  dogs  of  the  parish, 
there  was  so  much  aristocratic  bearing  about  the  dignified  brute,  that  they,  one 
and  all,  shrunk  from  his  approach.  But  he  was  faithful  to  his  master — night 


154  THE    BANNOW    POSTMAN. 

and  day  by  his  side ;  and  always  paid  particular  attention  to  Anastasia 
McQueen,  who,  strange  to  say,  was  a  very  frequent  visitor  at  the  dilapidated 
castle;  nay,  was  almost  daily  seen  trudging  towards  it;  —  her  short  scarlet 
cloak  meeting  the  broad  hem  of  her  blue  stuff  petticoat,  while  the  hood  only 
half-covered  a  profusion  of  deep  nut-brown  hair  (I  feel  it  here  a  duty  to  my 
country  peasant  girls  to  say,  that  they  generally  have  long  and  most  luxuriant 
tresses,  and,  womanlike,  are  not  a  little  proud  of  them) ;  and,  from  her  well- 
turned,  but  red  arm,  usually  hung  a  basket,  containing  such  presents  as  a  Ban- 
now  maiden  could  present ;  dried  fish,  fresh  cockles,  delicate  butter,  barley  or 
oaten  cakes,  thin  and  curling,  or  new  laid  eggs.  She  certainly  paid  very  great 
attention  to  the  old  man,  and  he  was  much  attached  to  his  lively  visiter. 

"  May-be  it 's  long  since  ye  heard  from  young  Pat  Lambert  ?'  she  inquired, 
after  caressing  Bang. 

"  True,  love,  dear ;  it  seems  long  to  one  like  me— a  poor  ould,  very  ould,  man ; 
may-be  he 's  forgotten  his  grandfather." 

"  No,  that  he 's  never  done,  I  'm  sartin  sure ;  he 's  as  thrue-hearted  a  boy  as* 
iver  crossed  the  sea ;  that  I  know,  and  I  take  it  very  unkind  o'  ye  to  say  he  'd 
forget  you." 

"  Well,  Anty,  whin  I  write  agin  I  '11  tell  him  that  there 's  some  don't  forget 
him,  any  way." 

"  Oh !"  said  Anty,  blushing  in  good  earnest,  "  ye  need  not  say  that ;  sure,  in  a 
Christian  country,  every  body  remimbers  their  neighbour. — How  beautiful  the 
sea  looks,  as  if  there  niver  was  an  end  to  it !" 

"  How  beautiful  the  sea  looks!"  repeated  Grey  Lambert,  smiling  and  shaking 
his  head  at  the  same  time :  "  Well,  Anty,  I  see  ye  're  an  admirer  o'  the  beauties 
of  natur.  The  sea  is  ever  beautiful  to  my  thinking ;  whin  the  great  waves  foam 
and  lash  the  shore,  and  whin  they  toss  big  ships,  such  as  you  niver  saw,  up  and 
down  without  any  trouble  in  life — then  't  is  beautiful ;  and  whin  it  sleeps  under 
the  setting  sunbames,  as  it  does  now,  it  is  beautiful.  How  well  ye  see  the 
entrance  into  Watherford  harbour  from  where  ye  stand  ! — though  a  score  o' 
miles  and  more  from  ye.  Well,  I  love  this  ould  castle  for  the  prospect ;  but  it 's 
a  grand  place,  and  I  never  could  think  to  live  anywhere  else,  now.  The  thick- 
ness of  the  walls  might  be  one  of  the  world's  wonders ;  then  the  gometry  stair- 
case, and  the  curious  writing  on  the  hard  stones  that  nobody  iver  understood 
yet ;  and  the  grate  oak  bames.  The  jewil  of  a  castle,  ye  are,  my  darlint ! — to 
think  how  bravely  ye  stood  aginst  ould  Oliver,  the  black  villain !  Och  !  many 
a  brave  heart — many  a  bright  eye — many  a  smile  dancing  like  the  sunbames  on 
the  sea,  has  been  in  ye,  whin  ye  stood  with  yer  high  walls  and  turrets  in  the 
morning  light ;  but  now  ye  're  ould,  and  even  yer  stones  look  withered,  and  the 
cow  and  the  wild  goat  shelter  where  princes  stood ;  and  the  owl  screams  where 
the  harp  sounded ;  and  I,  a  poor  worm  of  the  earth,  live  to  see  it,  whin  their 
noble  bones  make  part  of  the  sod  I  stand  on !" 

Lambert's  apostrophe  to  his  beloved  castle  was  lost  on  Anty,  who  eagerly 
exclaimed,  "  There  he  is  ! — there  he  is !  Now  I  '11  run  and  meet  him,  and  see 


THE    BANNOW   POSTMAN.  155 

if  he  has  got  a  letther  for  you."  Away  she  flew,  swift  as  an  arrow,  to  meet 
John  Williams,  postman,  and,  it  may  be  truly  said,  carrier,  to  the  united 
parishes  of  Bannow,'  Kilkaven,  and  Duncormuck,  for  above  thirty  years.  Even 
in  these  isolated  spots  people  cannot  do  without  news ;  it  is  almost  necessary  to 
existence.  Twice  each  week  John  Williams  still  journeys  to  the  nearest  post- 
town,  and  conveys  "  the  leading  journal  of  Europe,"  the  Fashionable  Post,  the 
Wexford  and  Waterford  Papers,  and  others,  to  the  news-loving  inhabitants. 
Honest  John  is  a  heedless,  good-tempered  fellow ;  but  a  very  jewel  of  a  post- 
man. He  had  been  originally  engaged  only  as  a  circulating  medium  for  letters 
from  Wexford  to  Bannow ;  but  he  was  either  bribed,  or  coaxed,  or  both,  into 
executing  commissions  for  everybody  who  had  commissions  to  execute.  John 
Williams's  list  was  regularly  made  out;  and  ribands,  tea,  candles,  sugar, 
books,  paper,  music,  gowns,  and  even  caps,  garnished  his  Rosinante— for  when 
his  orders  were  many,  John  was  obliged  to  take  his  steed ;  not  that  he  ever 
ventured  to  ride  the  poor  lame  beast,  whom  he  could  out-tire  at  any  time;  but 
he  walked  in  a  companionable  manner  with  it,  in  and  out  of  Wexford ;  and,  in 
truth,  their  caparisons  were  most  extraordinary. 

When  Anty  met  him,  his  loose  drab  coat  was  hardly  secured  by  a  solitary 
button,  and  his  leather  bags  dangled  over  his  shoulders ;  his  "  cawbeen"  on  one 
side  of  his  grey  shaggy  head,  his  scratch  wig  on  the  other,  and  his  "  dopdeen" 
serving  a  double  purpose — keeping  his  nose  warm,  and  exhilarating  his  spirits ; 
the  poor  horse,  more  fatigued  than  its  wiry  conductor,  eyeing  the  green 
straggling  hedgerows,  and  the  close  turf,  and  loitering  to  catch  a  mouthful  as 
he  passed.  At  either  side  his  neck  hung  two  blue  bandboxes,  filled,  doubtless, 
with  multifarious  finery ;  while  a  coil  of  thick  cable,  like  a  huge  Boa,  passed 
over  his  head,  and  held,  .suspended,  ten  or  twelve  flats  of  cork,  bespoke  by  the 
captain  of  a  coal  vessel  lying  at  Bannow  quay — three  new  kites,  four  skipping 
ropes,  ten  tops,  two  bags  of  marbles,  a  dozen  slates  (for  Master  Ben),  a  pair 
of  pole  screens  (for  the  lady  at  the  big  house),  and  some  blankets ;  all,  of 
course,  so  carelessly  papered,  that  they  had  more  than  half  escaped  from  their 
confinement. 

"  Good  even',  and  God  save  ye,  Misther  John !"  quoth  the  breathless  lass. 
The  postman  was  never  given  to  much  speaking,  and  nodded.  "  May-be  ye 
wouldn't  have  a  bit  of  a  letther  for  Grey  Lambert  ?"  John  stopped,  and  so  did 
the  horse ;  while  John  took  from  his  bag  a  long,  narrow,  dirty-looking  letter — 
presented  it — replaced  his  bag,  and  journeyed  on.  Anty  stopped,  and  looked 
after  him ;  "  John,  John,  I  want  to  spake  to  ye."  John  again  stopped.  "  I 
wanted  to  ask  ye,  if  so  be  that  ye  found — I  mean  met— a — a — I  thought,  may- 
be, ye  might  have — ah,  John  !  ye  know  what — for  poor  Anty  ?"  John  took  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  simply  said : 

"  May-be  ye  'd  tell  a  body  who  likes  plain  spakeing  what  ye  're  after  ?" 

"  Well,  thin,  John,  have  ye  a  letther  for  me  ?" 

"Yes;  why  didn't  ye  ask  me  that  a  while  ago,  and  not  give  me  the  throuble 
of  taking  off  my  bag  twice  1" 


156  THE    BANNOW    POSTMAN. 

"  Why  didn't  you  give  it  me,  and  I  to  the  fore  ?  Sure  ye  knew  ye  had  it." 
"  Why  look  ye,  Anty  McQueen,  I  have  been  thirty  years  a  postman ;  and  I 
have  always  done  what  the  back  of  the  letter  tould  me ;  and  see,  the  direction 
on  it  is — '  Anty  McQueeen,  Hill  Side,  Bannow,  County  of  Wexford,  Ireland — 
post-paid — to  the  care  of  John  Williams,  Bannow  postman ;  to  be  kept  till  called 
for.'  Sure  it  was  no  business  o'  mine  to  give  it  ye  till  ye  called  for  it,  or,  what 
I  consider  the  same  thing,  asked  for  it" 

Anty  took  the  letter,  and,  placing  it  in  her  bosom,  turned  towards  the  old 
castle,  to  give  to  Grey  Lambert  his  epistle.  John  pursued  his  path,  until  he 
arrived  at  the  village  Public.  There,  what  a  crowd  awaited  his  coming ! 
"John,  what's  the  news?" — "John,  the  paper." — "John — oh,  John,  don't 
mind  'em,  but  give  me  my  cap  !  I  hope  it  isn't  in  that  bandbox  that 's  had  the 
dance  in  the  mud.  There — John,  honey — don't  '  squeege'  it  so ! — sure  no  cap 
can  stand  a  '  squeeging !' " — "  John,  is  my  bonnet  come  ?  Och !  meal-a-murder  ! 
what  made  Miss  Lerady  put  an  Orange  riban'  in  my  beautiful  English  straw  ?" 
"  John,  I  hope  ye  didn't  forget  the  tobacco  ?" — "  John,  agra — the  two  ounces 
o'  green  tay  for  my  granny." — "  John,  my  twinty-four  marbles." — "  John,  och, 
John !  sure  it's  not  come  to  that  wid  ye,  that  ye  'd  forget  the  green  silk  handker- 
chief!"— "  John,"  said  a  fine-looking  fellow,  pushing  through  the  circle,  "  John, 
did  ye  get  the  thing  I  tould  ye  of?"  John  winked ;  and  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket  drew  forth  a  very  little  parcel,  wrapped  up  in  white  paper.  The  young 
man  took  it,  smiled,  and  soon  after  there  was  a  bustle  at  the  far  window ;  for 
the  parcel  contained  a  plain  gold  ring,  which  the  saucy  youth  was  endeavour- 
ing to  try  on  the  finger  of  pretty  Letty,  the  gentle  daughter  of  mine  host  of 
the  u  Public." — "  John,  any  letthers  for  me  ?"  inquired  the  bustling  man  of  the 
big  shop — "  One,  Darby,  very  like  a  bill." — "  Humph  !"  said  Darby. — "  Did  ye 
bring  the  doctor's  stuff  for  father?"  asked  Minny  Corish. — "Och!  murder-in- 
Irish!  sure  ye 're  not  afther  forgetting  the  five  yards  o'  red  stuff,"  exclaimed 
no  less  a  person  than  Mrs.  Cassidy  herself,  "  and  I  wanting  to  quilt  it  for  a 
petticoat,  to  keep  my  ould  bones  from  freezing !" — "  John,"  said  a  village  lounger, 
who  expected  nothing,  and  yet  wanted  to  say  something — "  John,  why  d'ye 
wear  yer  wig  over  yer  hair?"  "Why,"  replied  John,  dryly,  "sure  ye  wouldn't 
have  me  wear  my  hair  over  my  wig." — "John,  I  take  shame  that  I  didn't  offer 
ye  this  afore,"  and  the  landlord  presented  a  large  glass  of  whiskey  to  the  post- 
man, who  drank  it  off,  remarking  afterwards — "  thrue  Parliament,  to  be  sure," 
which  raised  a  general  laugh. — "  Come,  John,  ye  're  enough  to  set  a  body  mad," 
said  fussy  Tom  Tennison,  who  was  ever  in  a  bustle  about  something  or  other, 
"  Master  Ben  has  been  here  more  nor  an  hour,  waiting  to  rade  us  the  news, 

and  there  ye  stand,  taking  the  things  out  as  asy  as ;  can't  ye  give  us  the 

paper  ?"  "  No — I  say,  no — not  till  it 's  yer  turn,  Mister  Fussy  ;  take  the  patthern 
o'  yer  manners  from  Mister  Ben  ;  see  how  quiet  he  stands,  as  the  song  says — 
'  tall  and  straight  as  a  popilar  tree ;'  and  two  of  his  bran  new  slates  cracked  by 
that  devil  of  a  horse.  Arrah,  don't  be  bothering  me,  all  o'  ye ;  ye  forget,  so  ye 
do,  that  I  have  five  or  six  places  to  go  to  yet ;  if  ye  taze  me  afther  this  fashion, 


THE    BANNOW    POSTMAN.  157 

hang  me,  but  ye  must  get  another  postman  ;  the  moment  ye  see  me,  ye  're  like  a 
pack  o'  Curnell  Piggot's  hounds  in  full  cry,  afther  a  hare ;  can't  ye  larn  patience? 
sure  everybody  knows  it 's  a  vartue." 

John's  next  resting-place  was  the  Parsonage ;  such  a  lovely  spot — just  what  a 
parsonage  ought  to  be ;  only  look,  is  it  not  perfectly  delicious  ?  That  softly 
swelling  meadow,  over  which  the  evening  mist  is  stealing,  paled  off  from  the 
mossy  lawn  that  fays  and  fairies  might  delight  to  revel  on;  the  lowly,  yet 
elegantly-thatched,  cottage ;  the  green-house,  the  flower-borders — did  you  ever 
see  such  splendid  flowers  1 — there — such  balsams — such  peonies — such  a  myrtle 
— such  roses !  roses  red,  white,  pure  white,  the  maiden's  blush,  the  damask, 
and  the  many-coloured  Lancaster,  not  rivalling  each  other,  but  uniting  to 
charm  sight  and  smell  by  their  combined  beauty  and  fragrance.  Ah !  there  is 
Marianne  amongst  the  lilies,  fit  model  for  a  sculptor,  alike  lovely  in  person  and 
mind.  And  the  eldest,  Henrietta,  noble  and  dignified,  though  very  different 
from  Marianne;  conscious  of  her  magnificent  beauty,  yet  condescending  and 
benevolent  to  the  poorest  peasant.  Then,  Ellen  the  youngest;  not  the  hand- 
somest, but  certainly  the  most  useful ;  a  perfect  Goody  Two-shoes,  with  more 
wisdom  at  fifteen  than  most  women  at  fifty.  The  postman  is  to  them  all  a  most 
welcome  visiter.  "Oh,  John,  is  it  you?  Do  give  me  papa's  and  mamma's 
letters."  "  Oh,  don't,  Marianne !"  said  the  young  Ellen ;  "  don't  take  them  all 
yourself;  do  let  me  have  the  newspapers,  at  least,  to  give  papa."  "  John," 
inquired  Hetta,  "  the  netting-silk,  and  the  silver  bodkin — I  hope  you  have  chosen 
a  nice  one — and  the  two  skipping-ropes,  for  my  sisters; — thank  you."  "All 
right,  I  hope,  Miss."  "  Thank  you,  all  quite  right ;  will  you  come  up  and  take 
something,  John  ?"  "  No,  Miss,  I  humbly  thank  ye,  all  the  same."  "  John,  tell 
me — have  you  got  a  letter  for  poor  Mrs.  Clavery  ?"  "  Yes,  Miss."  "  Ah,  now 
I  am  happy ;  poor  woman,  she  will  be  so  delighted !" 

"  There,"  thought  John  to  himself,  as  he  passed  on — "  there,  that  is  what  I  call 
the  true  breed  of  the  gentry.  Such  a  born  beauty  as  that  to  think  of  a  poor 
sorrow-struck  woman !  Ah,  the  thick  blood  without  any  puddle,  for  ever ! — 
that 's  the  sort  that  warms  the  heart." 

Mrs.  Clavery's  story  will  be  best  told  in  her  own  words,  as  she  herself  related 
it  to  the  family  at  the  Parsonage,  a  few  months  before  John  brought  her  the  letter 
that  made  Miss  Henrietta  so  happy. 

One  tranquil  evening  in  autumn,  a  pale,  delicate  young  woman  rested  her 
hand  on  the  gate  that  opened  to  the  green  sloping  lawn  which  fronted  the 
Parsonage-house ;  uncertain  whether  or  not  she  might  venture  to  raise  the  latch, 
she  gazed  wistfully  on  the  group  of  children  who  were  playing  on  the  green. 
Although  in  the  veriest  garb  of  misery,  there  was  nothing  of  the  common  beggar 
in  her  appearance ;  and  the  two  little  ones,  who  clung  to  her  tattered  cloak, 
were  better  covered  than  their  mother.  She  carried,  on  her  back,  a  young  sickly- 
looking  infant,  and  its  weak  cries  arrested  the  attention  of  the  good  pastor's 
youngest  daughter,  who  bade  her  enter,  in  that  gentle  tone  which  speaks  of  hope 
and  comfort  to  the  breaking  heart.  How  much  is  in  a  kindly  voice !  When  the 


158  THB   BANNOW   POSTMAN. 

woman  had  partaken  of  food  and  rest,  and  remained  a  few  days  at  the  Parsonage, 
she  thus  told  her  tale : — 

"  May  God  reward  ye ! — for  ye  have  fed  the  hungry,  and  ye  have  clothed 
the  naked,  and  ye  have  spoken  of  hope  to  her  that  thought  of  it  no  more ;  and 
ye  have  looked  like  heaven's  own  angels  on  one  who  had  forgot  the  sight  o' 
smiles.  May  God's  fresh  blessing  be  about  ye ! — may  ye  niver  want !  But  a 
poor  woman's  prayer  is  nothing ;  only  I  am  certain  sure  the  Almighty  will  grant 
ye  a  long  life,  and  a  happy  death,  for  yer  kindness  to  one  who  was  lone  and 
desolate  in  a  could  world.  It 's  little  matter  where  one  like  me  was  born,  only 
I  came  of  dacent,  honest  people,  and  it  could  not  be  said  that  any  one  belonging 
to  me  or  mine  ever  wronged  man  or  mortal ;  the  boys  were  brave  and  just — 
the  girls  well-looking  and  virtuous: — seven  of  us  under  one  roof;  but  there  was 
full  and  plinty  of  everything — more  especially  love,  that  sweetens  all.  Well,  I 
married ;  and  I  may  say  a  more  sober,  industrious  boy  never  broke  the  world's 
bread  than  my  Thomas — my  Thomas !  I  ask  yer  pardon,  ladies ;  but  my  heart 
swells  when  I  think  that  may-be  he 's  gone  to  the  God  who  gave  him  to  me, 
first  for  a  blessing,  then  for  a  heart-trial." 

The  poor  woman  wept;  and  the  father  of  the  family  she  was  addressing, 
adopting-  the  figurative  language  which  the  Irish  so  well  understand,  observed, 
"  The  gardener  prunes  the  vine  even  to  bleeding,  and  suffers  the  bramble  to  grow 
its  own  way." 

"  That 's  true ;  thank  ye,  sir,  for  that  sweet  word  of  comfort,"  she  replied, 
smiling  faintly ;  "  it 's  happy  to  think  of  God's  .care — the  only  care  that 's  over 
the  poor,  though  it  seems  ungrateful  to  say  that  to  those  who  are  so  extraordi- 
nary kind  to  me.  Well,  we  had  a  clane  cabin — a  milk-white  cow — a  trifle  of 
poultry — two  or  three  pigs — indeed,  every  comfort  in  life,  according  to  our 
station,  and  thankful  we  were  for  them.  Time  passed  as  happy  as  heart  could 
wish,  and  one  babe  came,  and  another ;  but  the  eldest  now  was  the  third  then, 
for  it  pleased  God  to  take  the  two  first  in  a  fever ;  and  bad,  sure  enough,  was 
the  trouble,  for  my  husband  took  it,  and  there  he  lay,  off  and  on,  for  as  good 
as  four  months ;  and  then  the  rint  got  behindhand,  and  we  were  forced  to  sell 
the  cow :  one  would  think  the  baste  had  knowledge,  for  when  she  was  going  off 
to  the  fair  (and,  by  the  same  token,  it  was  my  brother-in-law's  sister's  son  that 
druv  her),  she  turned  back  and  mowed ;  ay,  as  nataral  as  a  child  that  was 
quitting  the  mother.  Well ;  we  never  could  rise  the  price  of  a  cow  agin,  and 
that  was  a  sore  loss  to  us,  for  God  sent  two  young  ones  the  next  time,  and  betwixt 
the  both  I  could  niver  get  a  minit  to  do  the  bit  o'  spinning  or  knitting  that  the- 
landlord's  wife  expected  as  a  yearly  compliment.  She  was  not  a  born  lady ; 
and  they  're  the  worst  to  the  poor.  Musharoon  gentry !  that  spring  up  and  buy 
land,  hand  over  head,  from  the  raale  sort,  that  are  left,  in  the  long  run,  with- 
out cross  or  coin  to  bless  themselves  with ;  all  owing  to  their  generosity.  Well, 
to  make  up  for  that,  Iwas  forced  to  give  up  some  of  my  best  hens,  as  duty 
fowl,  to  the  lady,  on  account  that  she  praised  their  handsome  toppings.  That 
wasn't  all ;— the  pigs  got  the  measles ;  and  we  might  have  sould  them  to  ad 


THE    BANNOW    POSTMAN.  159 

vantage,  but  my  husband  says,  says  he,  '  Mary,  we  have  had  disease  and  death 
in  our  own  house ;  and  don't  let  us  be  the  manes  o'  selling  unwholesome  mate, 
upon  no  account — becase  it  brings  ill  health,  and  we  to  answer  for  it,  when  no- 
thin'  will  be  to  the  fore  but  the  honest  deeds  and  the  roguish  ones,  straight 
aginst  each  other,  and  no  one  to  judge  them  but  the  Almighty — the  ONE  who 
knows  the  rights  of  all;' — that  was  true  for  him.  Well;  we  might  have  got 
up  agin,  for  my  poor  Thomas  worked  like  any  negur  to  the  full ;  but  just  after 
we  had  sowed  our  little  field  of  wheat  (it  was  almost  at  the  corner  of  the  land- 
lord's park,  and  we  depinded  on  it  for  the  next  gale  day),  nothing  could  sarve 
the  landlord  but  he  must  take  it  out  of  our  hands,  without  any  notice,  to  plant 
trees  upon.  I  went  to  my  lady,  and,  to  soften  her  like,  took  what  was  left  of 
my  poor  fowl— the  cock  and  all — as  a  present ;  she  accepted  them  very  gen- 
teelly, to  be  sure,  and  promised  we  should  have  another  field,  and  compensation 
money.  We  waited,  and  waited,  but  no  sign  of  it ;  at  last  my  husband  made 
bould  to  go  to  the  landlord  himself,  and  tould  him  all  that  had  passed  between 
the  lady  and  me.  '  Don't  bother  me,  man,'  was  the  answer  he  made ;  «  com- 
pensation, indeed ! — what  compensation  am  I  to  have  for  being  out  of  my  rent 
so  long,  the  time  ye  were  sick,  and  ye  without  a  lase  1  And  I  am  sartain  my 
wife  never  promised  anything  of  the  sort  to  the  woman.'  '  I  ask  yer  pardon, 
sir,'  replied  Thomas,  civil,  of  course — for  Thomas  was  always  civil  to  rich  or 
poor ;  '  but  she  did,  for  my  Mary  tould  me.'  '  She  tould  ye  a  lie,  then,'  said 
the  landlord  ;  and  my  husband  fired  up.  '  Sir,'  said  he,  « if  ye  were  my  equal 
you  dar'n't  say  the  likes  o'  that  of  my  Mary,  for  though  she 's  not  of  gentle 
blood,  she 's  no  liar !'  Then  the  landlord  called  my  husband  an  impudent 
blackguard ;  and  Thomas  made  answer,  that  he,  being  a  gentleman,  might  call 
him  what  he  pleased ;  but  that  none  should  say  that  of  his  wife  that  she  did 
not  desarve :  however,  the  upshot  of  the  thing  was,  that  we  got  warning  to  quit 
all  of  a  suddent :  but  there  was  no  help  for  it;  as  the  neighbours  said — true 
for  them — that  Thomas  was  by  no  manes  so  strong  a  man  as  before  the  feaver ; 
and  the  steward  found  out  some  stranger  who  offered  money  down  on  the  nail 
for  the  land,  that  we  had  in  such  prime  order.  Every  one  cried  shame  on  the 
landlord,  but  sure  there 's  no  justice  for  the  poor !  'T  was  a  sorrowful  parting, 
for  somehow  a  body  gets  fond 'of  the  bits  of  trees  even,  that  grow  up  under 
their  own  eye ;  and  I  was  near  my  lying-in,  and  the  troubles  came  all  at  once, 
and  all  we  could  get  to  shelter  us  was  a  damp  hole  of  a  place.  My  husband 
got  plenty  of  work ;  and  though  it  wasn't  in  natur  not  to  lament  by -gone  com- 
forts, yet  sure  the  love  was  to  the  good,  firm — ay,  firmer  than  ever — and  no 
blight  was  on  our  name,  nor  isn't  to  this  day — thank  God  for  it ! — for  nobody 
breathing  can  say,  Thomas,  or  Mary,  Clavery,  ye  owe  me  the  value  of  a  thra- 
neen.  Oh !  but  that 's  a  fine  thing  and  a  cheering  after  all !  Well,  the  change 
of  air,  and  the  fretting,  and  one  thing  or  other,  made  me  very  weakly ;  and  we 
lost  the  fellow  twin  to  this  one;  it  was  happy  for  the  darlint — but  it  was 
heart-scalding  to  see  it  peeking  and  peeking — wastin'  and  wastin',  and  to  want 
the  drop  of  wine,  or  the  morsel  of  mate,  that  might  keep  it  to  be  a  blessing  to 


160  THE   BANNOW   POSTMAN. 

its  parent's  grey  hairs.  It  was  then,  just  after  my  child's  death,  that,  to  drive 
the  sorrow  from  his  heart,  Thomas  took  a  little  to  the  drop ;  and  yet  he  wasn't 
like  other  men,  that  grow  cross  and  fractious — he  was  always  gentle  to  me  and 
the  young  ones ;  but  in  the  end  it  ruined  us,  as  it  does  all  who  have  any  call  to 
it — for  he  was  as  fine  a  young  man,  though  I  say  it,  as  ye  could  see  in  a  day's 
walk — standing  six  feet  two,  in  his  stocking  vamps,  and  admired  for  his  beauty ; 
and  he  went  to  the  next  town  to  sell  my  little  spinning,  that  I  had  done  to 
keep  the  dacent  stitch  on  the  childer ;  and,  as  was  fated,  I  suppose,  who  should 
be  there  but  a  recruiting  sargent — and  when  the  drink 's  in,  the  wit 's  out,  and 
he  listed — listed! — And  the  parting — oh!  but  I  thought  the  life  would  lave 
me — sure  I  followed  him  to  the  place  of  embarkment,  and  there  they  druv  me 
from  him ;  and  I  stood  on  the  sea-shore,  and  saw  him  on  the  deck  of  that  black 
ship,  his  arms  crossed  over  his  breast  like  one  melancholy  mad ;  and  it  was  long 
before  I  believed  he  was  really  gone — gone — gone;  and  that  there  was  no 
voice  to  cheer  me — for  these  did  nothing  but  cry  for  food :  it  was  wicked,  but 
I  wished  to  die,  for  my  heart  felt  breaking.  The  little  left  me  was  soon  gone ; 
I  was  among  strangers — I  could  not  bear  to  go  to  my  own  people  or  place, 
because  I  was  more  like  a  shame,  and  my  spirit  was  too  high  to  be  looked  down 
on.  I  have  travelled  from  parish  to  parish,  doing  a  bit  of  work  of  any  kind  when 
I  could  get  it,  and  trusting  to  good  Christians  to  give  something  to  the  desolate 
children  when  all  else  failed." 

"  Have  you  never  heard  from  your  husband  ?" 

"  Oh,  sir,  he  sends  his  letters  to  Watherford,  to  the  care  of  onej  know,  but  I 
cannot  often  hear,  the  distance  is  so  great" 

"  Did  he  not  forward  you  money  ?" 

"  Three  pounds ;  but  we  owed  thirty  shillings  of  it,  betwixt  rent  for  the  last 
hole  we  lived  in,  and  two  or  three  other  matters.  I  was  overjoyed  to  be  able  to 
send  the  money,  for  the  debts  lay  heavy  on  my  heart ;  and,  to  be  sure,  the 
children  wanted  many  a  little  thing,  and  the  remainder  soon  went." 

The  good  pastor  and  his  family  were  deeply  interested  in  Mary  Clavery's 
simple  tale ;  and,  on  further  inquiry,  its  truth  was  fully  established.  It  was 
also  found  that  her  husband  was  in  a  regiment  then  at  Jamaica,  commanded  by 
the  clergyman's  brother,  a  gallant  and  distinguished  officer.  The  story  circu- 
lated very  quickly,  in  a  neighbourhood  where  every  little  circumstance  is  an 
event ;  and,  to  the  credit  of  my  favourite  Bannow,  be  it  known  that,  on  the 
very  same  Sabbath  morning,  in  the  Protestant  church  and  Catholic  chapel,  a 
collection  was  made  for  the  benefit  of  the  distressed  family.  Another  week 
saw  Mary  and  her  children  in  quiet  possession  of  a  small  two-roomed  cabin ; 
the  parish  minister  and  parish  priest  conversing  at  the  door,  as  to  the  best 
manner  of  procuring  the  industrious  woman  continued  employment;  and 
the  three  young  ladies  very  busily  engaged  in  arranging  new  noggins  and 
plates,  and  all  manner  of  cottage  furniture,  to  their  own  sweet  taste.  Then, 
Farmer  Corish  gave  Mrs.  Clavery  a  sack  of  potatoes — Master  Ben  engaged  to 
"  teach"  the  children  for  nothing — Mrs.  Cassidy  sent,  as  her  offering,  a  fine  fat 


THE   BANNOW   POSTMAN.  161 

little  pig — Mrs.  Corish  presented  a  motherly  well-educated  goose,  capable  of 
bringing  up  a  numerous  family  respectably — good  Mr.  Rooney,  as  considerate 
and  worthy  an  old  bachelor  as  ever  lived  (how  angry  I  am  with  good  men  for 
being  old  bachelors !)  sent  her  a  setting  hen  and  seven  eggs ; — in  short,  the 
little  cottage  and  garden  were  stocked  so  quickly,  and  yet  so  well,  and  the  poor 
woman  was  so  grateful,  that  she  could  hardly  believe  the  reality  of  what  had 
occurred.  Her  kind  friends  at  the  Parsonage,  however,  saw  that  something 
more  was  wanting  to  make  their  protege  perfectly  happy.  What  that  was, 
need  I  tell? — my  lady  readers  have  surely  guessed  it  already,  and  even  the 
gentlemen  may  have  found  it  out  The  clergyman,  without  acquainting  Mrs. 
Clavery,  had  written  to  his  brother,  mentioning  all  the  particulars,  and  begging 
Thomas's  discharge;  the  last  post  had  brought  him  a  letter,  stating  that  his 
request  was  granted. 

But  the  three  graces  (as  my  young  friends  of  the  parsonage  were  always 
called)  denied  themselves  the  pleasure  of  communicating  the  joyful  tidings ; 
leaving  the  expected  letter  from  Thomas  Clavery  himself  to  tell  the  news. 
They  could  not,  however,  forego  the  gratification  of  witnessing  the  joy  the 
cottagers  would  feel  when  the  information  was  communicated,  that  the  husband 
and  the  father  was  on  his  homeward  journey,  and  they  hastily  followed  the  post- 
man to  Mary's  abode. 

John's  next  resting-place  was  at  an  old  weather-beaten  but  spacious  man- 
sion, somewhat  out  of  the  Bannow  district,  and  close  on  the  beach.  It  belonged 
to  a  gentleman  whose  health  obliged  him  to  reside  for  a  time  on  the  con- 
tinent, but  who  had  lent  his  house  to  his  relative,  Sir  James  Horatio  Banks, 
M.P.,  for  the  summer,  as  the  sea-bathing  is  very  good  all  along  the  Wexford 
coast:  consequently,  Sir  James  Horatio,  his  lady,  and  all  his  little  ones  and 
servants,  were,  fortunately,  only  birds  of  passage — I  beg  that  this  fact  may  be 
clearly  understood,  as  I  would  on  no  account  have  the  family  confounded  with 
our  own  dear  resident  gentry.  Sir  James  Horatio  Banks,  M.P.,  was  a  great 
man  in  his  own  way,  and  a  strange  way  it  was.  Anything  but  a  spendthrift, 
in  the  usual  acceptation  of  the  word,  and  yet  in  perpetual  embarrassments ;  for 
he  was  always  at  law ; — never,  to  do  him  justice,  missed  an  opportunity  of  liti- 
gation, whether  for  a  thousand  pounds  or  a  thousand  pence — an  estate  or  an 
acre.  Long  Chancery  suits  were  his  delight,  and  he  anticipated  Term  with 
absolute  rapture.  Most  people  complain  of  the  law's  delays.  Not  so  Sir 
James  Horatio  Banks.  He  was  always  anxious  to  retard  its  decisions ;  so 
much  so  that  he  was  once  designated,  in  open  court,  "  a  filthy  pebble  in  the 
wheel  of  justice."  He  stood  a  contested  election,  or,  rather,  Lady  Banks  got 
him  through  it,  and  triumphantly  speechified  on  the  hustings ;  but  the  many 
thousands  expended  on  that  memorable  occasion,  would  have  broken  his  heart 
to  a  certainty — if,  fortunately,  three  fresh  lawsuits  had  not  thence  arisen  to 
console  him.  It  was  some  comfort  to  the  Irish  to  discover  that  his  mother  had 
been  a  native  of  Wales ;  for  he  was  very  mean  in  his  household  expenses 
which  they  asserted,  could  not  have  been  the  case,  had  he  been  "  raale  Irish," 
21 


162  THE   BANNOW   POSTMAN. 

In  truth  he  had  a  miserly  aspect ;  a  thin  spare  body,  covered  with  a  parch- 
ment-like skin,  a  rattish  expression  of  countenance,  and  little  peering  grey  eyes 
that  seemed  eternally  seeking  for  flaws  in  everything.  He  used  to  ride  a  bony 
black  horse,  and  always  wore  overgrown  jack-boots,  a  threadbare  long  coat,  a 
flapped  hat — that  sometimes  answered  the  purpose  of  an  umbrella — and  invari- 
ably fastened  a  pair  of  horse-pistols  to  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  One  of  our 
Bannow  poets  made  the  following  rhyme  on  the  worthy  member,  and  contrived, 
in  a  crowd,  to  tie  them  to  the  tail  of  his  horse. — How  he  mourned  that  he  could 
never  discover  the  author  ! — 

"  The  Divil  Sir  Jimmy  to  Parliament  sint ; 
To  plaze  his  master,  Sir  Jimmy  he  wint, 
On  his  ould  black  horse,  that  look'd  like  a  hack ; 
Success  1  cried  the  boys ;  may  ye  niver  come  back  !" 

Indeed  the  peculiarities  of  the  family  afforded  much  amusement  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood where  they  resided  for  a  time.  Lady  Banks  was  the  very  opposite 
of  her  husband ;  possessed,  as  a  brother  sportsman  once  said  of  her,  "  blood, 
bone,  and  beauty ;"  wore  a  scarlet  riding  habit ;  hunted  in  grand  style— was 
always  in  at  the  death  ;  sung. songs  after  supper — loved  claret;  never  scrupled 
at  an  oath;  called  Sir  James  "her  little  man," — always  saw  the  horses  fed; 
obliged  her  girls  to  stand  fire — her  boys  to  go  barefoot,  to  make  them  hardy; 
and  obtained  for  herself,  amongst  the  country  people,  the  universal  sobriquet  of 
"  Man  Jack."  Perhaps  all  these  eccentricities  might  have  been  forgiven,  had  she 
possessed  the  kindly  feelings  of  her  sex,  for  she  was  young  and  handsome ;  but 
she  was  neither  an  affectionate  mother  nor  a  sincere  friend;  she  loved  to  dash 
and  to  astonish,  and  left  a  family  of  beautiful  children  to  the  management  of  a 
French  lady's  maid  and  the  head  groom. 

The  postman's  arrival  was  a  matter  of  great  importance  to  the  household,  as 
Sir  James  always  expected  letters,  and  the  family  had  many  wants  to  be  supplied. 
Ma'm'selle  Madeline  had  descended  to  the  servants'  hall  to  await  John's  coming, 
and  two  or  three  of  the  younger  children  accompanied  her :  on  a  table,  in  the 
centre  of  the  apartment,  Miss  Julia,  a  lovely  girl  of  five  years  old,  was  dancing 
a  jig,  to  the  great  amusement  of  two  or  three  men  servants,  who  sung  St. 
Patrick's  Day  to  "  plaze  the  jewil ;"  Carlos  and  Henry,  two  younger  urchins, 
were  riding  a  magnificent  Newfoundland  dog ;  the  groom  and  the  footman  were 
playing  cards  at  a  small  side-table  near  the  fire ;  and  near  it  was  a  jug  of 
whiskey  punch,  to  which  the  butler,  housekeeper,  and  coachman  frequently 
resorted.  Ma'm'selle  Madeline  looked  contemptuously  on  them  all,  until  roused 
from  her  reverie  by  the  butler's  inquiring  "  if  Miss  Maddy  wouldn't  taste  a  drop 
of  the  genuine  —  betther,  ten  to  one,  nor  all  the  wine  that  iver  sailed  out  of 
France  ?"  "  Non,  Mercie,  bien,  tank  you,  Monsieur— ver  oblige,  mais — but  I 
ha'  de  horreur  great  to  your  ponch.  Faugh? — excuse  moi — 'tis  von  great  bad 
shmell. — Faugh  !'* — and  the  lady's  maid  refreshed  her  nose  with  "  Eau  de  Luce," 
much  to  the  amusement  of  the  servants.  "  Oh,  John ! — welcome, John !"  "  Oh, 


THE   BANNOW   POSTMAN.  163 

Monsieur  John,  you  not  be  come  at  last."  "John,  the  rings  for  the  pigs." 
John  here,  John  there,  John  everywhere,  as  usual ;  at  length,  the  papers  and 
letters  were  piled  on  the  table,  and  Ma'm'selle  Madeline  had  received,  and  disap- 
peared with,  her  band-boxes.  "  Larry,"  said  the  butler  to  the  footman,  "  take 
up  the  papers — why  don't  ye  ?'  "  Let  them  wait  till  I  've  looked  at  them  myself," 
replied  Larry ;  "  I  want  to  see  what  news  .from  the  Curragh,  as  my  lady  has  a 
heavy  bet  on  Captain  Lofty's  sorrel  coult"  "  Any  news  of  the  law  business  ?" 
inquired  the  steward.  "  How  do  I  know,  or  what  do  I  care "?"  replied  Larry : 
"  what  does  it  signify  whether  law  actions  are  gained  or  not  ? — don't  we  all  know 
what  comes  over  the  divil's  back  must  go  under — "  "  Dacency !"  screamed 
the  cook.  "  All  I  know,"  observed  the  steward,  "  is — " 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what,  boys,"  said  John  Williams,  "  ye'd  betther  mind  yer  business, 
and  take  the  letthers  up,  out  of  hand ;  for  Sir  James  and  my  lady  both  saw  me 
coming  down  the  avenue." 

"Och,  murder,  John! — why  didn't  ye  tell  me  so  before? — by  the  powers, 
'  Man  Jack'  '11  bate  my  brains  out !"  and  the  footman  hurried  off  amid  the  laughter 
of  his  fellow-servants. 

"  Any  news,  Sir  James  ?"  inquired  the  lady,  as  she  tried  on  a  new  velvet 
hunting-cap. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  I  Ve  just  received  the  bills  for  my  last  suit  in  the  King's 
Bench." 

"  You  lost  the  cause,  I  think." 

"  Yes,  owing  to  the  hurry  that  Counsellor  Playdil  was  in ; — never  can  take 
his  time  about  anything." 

"  What 's  the  damage  ?" 

Poor  Sir  James  groaned.  "It  will  .stand  me  in,  one  way  or  other, 
eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-seven  pounds,  fourteen  shillings,  and  threepence 
farthing." 

"  The  devil  it  will !"  exclaimed  the  lady,  laying  down  the  hunting-cap :  "  I 
wonder,  Sir  James,  you  don't  at  once  take  my  advice ;  have  done  with  the  law, 
and  the  torment  of  it.  I  '11  bet  ten  to  one  you  'd  be  as  happy  again.  Oh,  if  you 
had  my  spirit !" 

Sir  James  thought,  perhaps,  that  she  had  enough  for  both  :  a  pause  ensued,  and 
at  length  the  M.P.  began — "  My  dear  Lady  Banks,  do  you  know  that  Major 
McLaughlin's  filly  has  won  the  cup  1" 

".Then  I  'm  in  for  a  cool  hundred,  that 's  certain,  or  else  there 's  some  foul  play. 
Curse  me,  though,"  continued  the  lady,  "  but  I  '11  find  it  out ! — a  colt  like  Lofty's ! 
— such  a  chest — such  action — such  limbs  !  Why,  McLaughlin's  was  no  more 
to  be  compared  to  it — but  it 's  all  your  fault,  Sir  James — I  never  have  my  own 
way;  I  ought  to  have  been  on  the  race-ground  ;  but  here  you  would  stick  and 
vegetate  like  a  cabbage  ;  except,  indeed,  in  Term  time ;  you  don't  care  what 's 
spent  on  law-suits." 

"  'Sdeath,  Madam,  were  it  not  for  the  law  we  should  be  ruined,  your  extrava- 


164  .  THE    BANNOW   POSTMAN. 

gance  is  such — you  never  ask  the  price  of  anything ; — hadn't  I  to  go  to  law  with 
your  habit-maker  for  his  overcharges  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!- — and  to  pay  three-and-thirty  pounds  more  than  the  original 
bill." 

"  Well,  but  still  I  had  the  law,  and  I  showed  the  fellow  I  could  not  be  imposed 
upon.  Oh,  Lady  Banks,  Lady  Banks!  I  wish  you  were  less  extravagant;  we 
must  retrench.  Do  you  know,  were  I  not  a  Member  of  Parliament  I  should  be 
in  a  jail ;  think  of  that,  Lady  Banks  ! — in  a  jail !" 

"  Well,  and  have  you  not  to  thank  me  for  your  election  ? — who  in  their  senses 
would  have  sent  you,  little  man,  to  be  a  representative,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my 
canvassing  ?  The  house  would  be  half  memberless,  if  only  those  sat  there  who 
paid  their  debts !" — and  she  laughed  loudly.  "  Your  law  tells  you  that  the  M.P. 
is  a  cloak  against  bailiffs !  Vive  le  plaisir !  Why  you  don't  expect  me  to  turn 
mourner,  and  spend  my  allowance  only — like  a  school-girl ;  a  woman  of  my 
spirit!  Pardonnezmoi!"  She  was  leaving  her  husband  surrounded  by  letters, 
all  demanding  money,  when  some  idea  or  sensation  occurred,  that  stopped  her  on 
the  threshold.  "  Sir  James,  Madeline  tells  me  that  Caroletta  is  ill ;  perhaps  the 
child  wants  change  of  air ;  she  grows  fast — is  getting  quite  womanly ;  you  had 
better  send  her  to  your  sister  at  Portarlington  for  a  time ;  I  have  not  a  moment 
to  attend  to  it,  but  as  she  is  your  pet  I  thought  I  would  mention  it."  The  lady 
went  to  look  after  horses,  and  the  gentlemen  (who  certainly  loved  his  family), 
to  inquire  after  his  eldest  child,  whom  he  well  knew  not  to  be  her  mother's 
favourite,  because  she  was  growing  so  tall  and  handsome  that  the  vainglorious 
woman  dreaded  a  rival. 

By  the  time  our  useful  postman  had  completed  his  rounds,  for  he  had  much 
to  do  after  he  had  left  the  Honourable  Member's  house,  the  moon  was  high  in 
the  heavens,  and  John  and  his  steed  had  ensured  sound  slumbers  by  active 
exertion.  There  were  many,  however,  who  woke,  and  some  who  wept,  while 
the  stars  sparkled  in  the  blue  sky}  and  the  unruffled  ocean  murmured  along  the 
shore.  How  different  is  night  in  the  country  from  night  in  town  !  Oh,  for  my 
native  hills  by  moonlight ! — the  very  breeze  tells  of  repose,  and  the  lone  and 
beautiful  clouds,  passing  so  silently  along  the  heavens,  that  they — 


•  seem  to  be 


Fair  islands  in  a  dark  blue  sea, 

Which  human  eyes  at  eve  behold ; 
But  only  then,  unseen  by  day, 

Their  shores  and  mountains  all  of  gold." 

At  the  Parsonage  the  three  sisters  were  chattering,  as  only  girls  can  chatter, 
arranging  further  plans  to  benefit  the  poor  and  needy ;  and  even  while  their 
hearts  were  uplifted  to  the  Giver  of  all  good,  they  sank  into  the  sweet  slumbers 
of  innocence. 


THE    BANNOW   POSTMAN.  165 

A  trembling  light,  that  issued  from  Mrs.  Clavery's  window,  showed  she  was 
still  awake.  Seated  by  the  bed-side,  where  her  three  little  ones,  their  arms 
twined  round  each  other,  slept  the  refreshing  sleep  of  childhood,  she  read,  for 
the  last  time  that  night,  the  lines  which  her  husband's  hand  had  traced ;  and, 
feeling  how  sweet  it  was  to  have  near  her  anything  that  came  from  a  beloved 
object,  placed  the  letter  under  her  pillow,  and  then,  while  earnest,  silent  tears 
coursed  each  other  down  her  cheeks,  prayed  that  an  all-directing  Providence 
would  guide  her  husband  in  safety  over  the  wide  waste  of  waters. 

Lady  Banks  had  just  finished  her  last  song,  after  supper,  which  was  loudly 
applauded  by  the  very  mixed  company  that  sat  around  the  board,  while  her  hus- 
band looked  gloomy  enough  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  meditating  on  his  long  debts 
and  neglected  daughter. 

Our  old  friend,  "  Grey  Lambert,"  and  his  faithful  Bang,  were  soundly  sleeping 
in  the  castle,  while  the  breeze  that  moaned  along  the  decaying  walls  was  to  them 
as  a  sweet  and  soothing  lullaby. 

Anty  McQueen — poor  Anty ! — she  slumbered  not.  Her  father's  cottage  was 
on  the  hill  side,  and  a  very  neat  cabin  it  was;  well  filled,  too,  with  children  of 
all  ages  and  sizes,  from  Anty,  the  eldest,  who,  in  her  own  opinion,  was  quite  old 
enough  to  be  married,  down  to  a  fat  rosy  "  lump  of  a  boy,"  who,  although  hardly 
able  to  crawl,  fought  manfully  with  the  pig  for  every  potato  it  took  into  its 
mouth.  The  household,  with  the  exception  of  Anty,  were  ail  fast  asleep,  and, 
from  the  nature  of  her  dress  (according  to  the  fashionable  acceptance  of  the 
word,  she  might  have  been  called  full  dressed),  it  would  seem  she  had  been  in 
bed  ;  however,  there  she  sat  over  the  dying  embers  of  the  fire — an  end  of  candle 
stuck  in  a  scooped  potatoe,  that  served  as  a  candlestick — and  an  open  letter  in 
her  hand,  which  she  turned  one  way,  and  then  another,  without  being  able  to 
understand  a  single  word  of  its  contents. 

Poor  Anty! — it  was  only  when  she  had  received  from  the  postman  the 
long-expected  epistle,  that  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  utterly  unable  to  peruse 
it.  Indeed,  she  could  hardly  decipher  print.  But  as  to  writing — she  never  had 
a  pen  in  her  hand  in  her  life.  Had  she  been  inclined  to  make  confidants  of  her 
father  and  mother,  she  would  have  been  precisely  in  the  same  dilemma,  for 
they  were  equally  ignorant ;  and  bitterly  did  she  regret  the  obstinacy  of  her 
disposition,  which  prevented  her  hearkening  to  Master  Ben,  when  he  counselled 
her  to  become  a  scholar.  Grey.  Lambert,  she  knew,  would  at  once  have  read 
every  word  of  it,  "for  he  had  great  laming;"  but  unfortunately,  as  her 
sweetheart  was  no  other  than  his  grandson,  she  did  not  exactly  wish  him  to 
have  so  much  subject-matter  to  jest  her  about.  She  had  taken  the  letter  to 
Mary-the-Mant,  who,  next  to  Peggy  the  Fisher,  perhaps  knew  more  about 
the  love  affairs  of  the  neighbourhood  than  anybody  else;  but  Mary-the- 
Mant  was  not  at  home — gone  to  Waterford — would  not  be  back  for  three  days ! 
Master  Ben  then  occurred  to  her.  But,  no !— she  could  not  bear  him  to  read 
it  for  her ;  not  that  he  would  laugh ;  but  he  would  feel  no  interest,  and  perhaps 
find  fault,  with  the  skill  of  a  practised  critic,  and  condemn  the  spelling  and  diction 


166  THE   BANNOW   POSTMAN. 

of  her  beloved  letter  without  mercy.  What  could  she  do  1  Letty  Connor — she 
was  well  educated ;  but  then  she  had  been  a  sort  of  rival  of  hers,  and  she  did 
not  wish  her  to  know  anything  at  all  about  the  matter.  John  Williams  1  No ; 
he  would  make  fun  of  her  in  his  own  quiet,  sly  way.  What  should  she  do  ?— - 
There  she  sat  over  the  fire,  twisting  and  turning  the  manuscript,  that  looked,  to 
tell  the  truth,  like  a  collection  of  strange  hieroglyphics,  more  than  anything  else ; 
and,  after  much  consideration,  Anty  resolved  on  two  things :  one,  even  to  take 
the  letter  to  Grey  Lambert  (for  waiting  three  entire  days  for  Mary-the-Mant 
.  was  out  of  the  question),  and  get  him  to  read  it.  The  other  was  to  offer  herself 
again  as  a  pupil  to  Master  Ben,  and  get  herself  taught  writing  "  out  of  hand" — 
all  in  a  minute — and  surprise  her  lover  (who  was  a  wonderful  scholar  entirely) 
with  her  acquirements. 

The  next  morning  Anty  arrived  at  Coolhull  before  Lambert  had  finished  his 
prayers;  for,  on  peeping  through  a  large  slit  in  the  door,  she  saw  the  old  man 
on  his  knees  before  a  crucifix,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  great  hall — Bang  sitting 
by  his  side,  while  the  bright  red  light  of  morning  streamed  through  one  of  the 
broken  windows,  and  rested  on  their  heads.  Her  visit  was  immediately  noticed 
by  the  faithful  dog,  whose  scent,  or  ear,  soon  discovered  that  she  was  outside. 
He  walked  steadily  to  the  time-worn  door,  and  laying  his  long  nose  on  the  ground, 
sniffed  loudly  three  or  four  times,  and  moved  his  tail  slowly,  in  token  of  recog- 
nition, as  she  entered.  The  young  girl  busied  herself  in  lighting  the  fire,  and 
settling  the  few  rude  articles  of  furniture,  according  to  her  own  taste,  until  Grey 
Lambert's  orisons  were  finished.  When  he  arose  from  his  knees,  she  knelt  and 
asked  his  blessing. 

"  Well,  Anty,  what 's  come  to  ye,  my  child,  to  be  two  good  miles  from  your 
own  home,  and  it  not  six  o'clock  yet  1  ye  weren't  heavy  for  sleep  this  morning, 
I  'm  sartin ;  is  there  anything  the  matter  at  home/  mavourneen,  for  something 
strange  must  have  brought  ye  ?  Come,  don't  look  so  shy ;  what  is  it  ails  the 
colleen? — have  ye  lost  yer  tongue? — fait,  agra !  it's  bad  indeed  wid.  ye,  if 
that's  gone."  Anty  shook  her  head.  "  Well,  I  '11  sit  down  here,  and  wait  till  ye 
choose  to  spake,  and  not  spind  any  more  o'  my  breath  on  ye ;  for,  to  tell  God's 
truth,  I  've  not  much  to  spare ;  only  I  can't  think  what 's  over  the  girl." — Lam- 
bert sat  down :  and  after  a  considerable  pause,  during  which  Anty  twisted  and 
untwisted  the  corner  of  her  apron  with  admirable  perse verence,  she  drew  the 
letter  from  its  hiding-place,  and,  turning  away  her  blushing  face  as  she  spoke, 
said,  with  considerable  hesitation — 

"  Ye  funned  me  about  a  letther  last  night,  sure  I  couldn't  help  it  if  the  boy 
chose  to  write.  It 's  no  faut  o'  mine.  I  didn't  put  any  comether  in  life  upon 
him ;  and  more  betokens,  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  ye  to  rade  it  for  me  if  I 
could  rade  it  myself;  and  sure,  Grey  Lambert,  I  didn't  desave  ye  by  no  manner 
of  manes ;  for  I  knew  ye  mistrusted  we  were  almost  keeping  company  afore 
Pat  took  the  turn  for  going  to  sea." 

"Well,  Anty,  ye  mane  to  be  Grey  Lambert's  grand-daughter;  whisht  now! 
—I'll  rade  the  letther." 


THE   BANNOVV   POSTMAN.  167 


«Mv  DEAR  ANTY, 

"  I  do  hope  that  these  few  lines  will  meet  acceptance  and  true  love  from 
you,  for  ye  haven't  forgot  the  fippinny-bit ;  the  half  of  it,  and  the  long  curl,  are 
next  my  bateing  heart  this  minit,  and  sure  it 's  in  the  core  of  it  they  should  be, 
if  I  had  any  way  to  get  them  there ;  but  it 's  all  the  same.  I  'm  unasy  in  my 
mind  about  two  things — my  poor  ould  ancient  gran'fader,  and  your  little  inno- 
cent flirtish  ways.  Ah,  Anty !  sure  there 's  all  the  boys  on  land  that  you  used 
to  taze  the  life  o'  me  about.  And  ye  think  it  no  harm  to  laugh  wid  'em  now ; 
but  it  wouldn't  be  the  same  if  we  were  married. — Ye'd  behave  yourself,  thin, 
Anty.  And  that  and  my  ould  ancient  gran'fader  has  made  up  my  mind. — 
And  the  thoughts  of  it  has  prevented  my  spending. — And  I  'm  coming  home, 
plaze  God,  only  don't  tell  the  ould  man,  nor  Bang,  the  baste,  becase  I  mane  every 
mother's  sowl  o'  ye  much  joy. — And  I've  bought  such  a  beautiful  gown-piece 
for  the  wedding.  Only,  to  my  thinking,  Anty,  nothing  can  make  ye  handsomer 
than  ye  are.  And  many  charmers  I  have  seen,  but  none  like  my  Bannow  girl. 
And  Jim  the  boatswain  has  made  a  song  upon  ye,  according  to  my  telling,  and 
every  varse  ends  wid — 

'  Anty,  the  darlint  of  the  land 
Is  still  her  Paddy's  pride.' 

Oh,  it 's  a  dale  a  finer  song  than  '  Colleen  das  Crutheen  Amo,'  as  you  '11  say  whin. 
ye  hear  it,  which  '11  be  very  soon  afther  you,  and  my  ould  ancient  gran'fader, 
gets  the  letthers.  And  there  's  another  boy  travelling  home  to  Bannow,  by  the 
name  of  Thomas  Clavery,  a  late  soldier,  but  discharged — an  honest,  dacent 
craythur  as  ever  drew  breath,  and  doating  alive  upon  the  wife  and  the  grawls. 
Be  faithful  to  him  that 's  faithful  to  you, « true  as  the  needle  to  the  poll.' — God's 
blessing  be  about  ye,  prays,  my  dear  Anty, 

"  Your  most  affectionate  lover, 

"  (Husband  soon)  till  death, 

"  PATRICK  LAMBERT." 


Grey  Lambert  folded  up  the  epistle,  and  returned  it  to  its  rightful  owner ;  the 
old  man  did  not  jest  upon  its  contents,  but,  rising  from  his  seat,  laid  his  hand  on 
Anty's  head,  and,  in  a  deep  but  solemn  voice,  said — 

"So,  colleen,  the  promise  has  passed  betwixt  ye,  that  in  God's  eye  is  as 
binding  on  ye  as  if  the  blessed  Pope  had  joined  yer  hands  in  his  holy  temple  at 
Rome.  I  knew  ye  had  a  kindness  for  each  other,  from  many  little  things, 
more  especially  from  the  way  Pat  always  mintioned  ye  in  his  letthers ;  but  I 
didn't  think  ye  were  contracted,  or  else,  Anty,  who  I  love  (and  good  right  I 
have  to  love  ye,  as  my  own  child),  I  would  have  talked  more  seriously  to  ye  about 
the  little  flirting  ways  yer  true  love  mintions.  Anty,  look  up  in  the  ould  man's 
face,  and  tell  him,  did  ye  ever  think— think  solidly — what  was  required  of  woman 


168  THE    BANNOW    POSTMAN. 

in  marriage  ?"  There  was  that  in  Grey  Lambert's  manner  which  conquered 
levity,  and  the  young  girl  looked  up  with  the  expression  of  countenance 
which  replied  "No."  "Few  craturs  at  yer  age  do,"  he  continued:  "and 
what  I  say  to  you,  ye  young  wild  flower,  sweet  and  spotless  as  ye  are,  I  will 
say  to  him,  and  more  too,  for  ye  are  far  faithfuller  in  yer  naturs  than  us.  Ah, 
Anty !  it 's  asy  enough  to  be  true  to  the  young  heart's  first  love,  whin  all  is  full 
of  hope ;  but,  in  my  early  days,  I  have  seen  affection  that  seemed  as  strong  as 
life,  and  then,  a  breath,  or  a  word,  or  a  look,  may-be,  has  begun  unkindness, 
and  that  has  increased,  until,  at  last,  bitther  scorn,  ay,  and  black  hatred,  grew, 
where  there  had  been  nothing  but  love  and  smiles.  And  women  have  much  to 
bear,  Anty ;  for  it 's  little  men  heed  an  unkind  word,  unjustly  spoken,  may-be, 
and  yet  to  be  borne,  almost  as  if  it  was  dear  or  darlint — which  is  the  hardest 
word  I  hope  ever  to  hear  Patrick  make  use  of  to  you.  But,  my  girl,  when  ye 
knew  of  the  promise,  it  wasn't  quite  right  of  ye  to  skit,  and  laugh,  and  dance,  as 
if  ye  were  free," 

"  I  'm  sure,  Grey  Lambert,"  interrupted  Anty,  half  crying,  "  ye  've  no  rason  to 
turn  on  me,  after  that  fashion,  for  I  meant  no  harm,  and  nothing  in  life  would 
ever  make  me  jilty." 

"  Asy,  agra,  till  I  tell  ye  a  little  story  to  divart  ye  a  bit,  and  it 's  all  thrue,  and 
I  know  ye  '11  find  out  my  maning,  for  ye  're  'cute  enough."  And  Anty  listened 
very  attentively,  pulling  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  "  Bang,  the  baste's"  ears, 
which  he  bore  patiently,  not  «ven  increasing  her  perplexity  by  moving  his  head 
from  off  her  lap. 

"  In  the  ancient  times,  when  flowers,  and  trees,  and  fairies  were  on  spake- 
ing  terms,  and  all  friendly  together ;  one  fine  summer's  day  the  sun  shone  out 
on  a  beautiful  garden,  where  there  war  all  sorts  of  plants  that  ye  could  mintion ; 
and  a  lovely  but  giddy  fairy  went  sporting  about  from  one  to  the  other  (although 
no  one  could  see  her,  because  of  the  sunlight),  as  gay  as  the  morning  lark ;  then 
says  the  fairy  to  the  rose — '  Rose,  if  the  sun  was  clouded,  and  the  storm  came 
on,  would  ye  shelter  and  love  me  still  ?'  '  Do  you  doubt  me  ?'  says  the  rose, 
and  reddened  up  with  anger. — '  Lily,'  says  the  fairy  to  another  love, '  if  the  sun 
was  clouded,  and  a  storm  came  on,  would  ye  shelter  and  love  me  still  ?'  '  Oh ! 
do  you  think  I  could  change  V  says  the  lily,  and  she  grew  still  paler  with  sor- 
row.— '  Tulip,'  said  the  fairy, '  if  the  sun  was  clouded,  and  a  storm  came  on, 
would  ye  shelter  and  love  me  still  ?'  *  Upon  my  word !'  said  the  tulip,  making 
a  very  gentleman-like  bow,  '  ye  're  the  very  first  lady  that  ever  doubted  my  con- 
stancy;' so  the  fairy  sported  on,  joyful  to  think  of  her  kind  and  blooming 
friends.  She  revelled  away  for  a  time,  and  then  she  thought  on  the  pale  blue 
violet  that  was  almost  kiyered  with  its  broad  green  leaves ;  and,  although  it  was 
an  ould  comrade,  she  might  have  forgotten  it,  had  it  not  been  for  the  sweet 
scent  that  came  up  from  the  modest  flower.  '  Oh,  violet !'  said  the  fairy, '  if  the 
sun  was  clouded,  and  a  storm  came  on,  would  ye  shelter  and  love  me  still  ?' 
And  the  violet  made  answer — '  Ye  have  known  me  long,  sweet  fairy;  and  in  the 
first  spring-time,  when  there  were  few  other  flowers,  ye  used  to  shelter  from 


THE    BANNOW   POSTMAN.  169 

the  could  blast  under  my  leaves ;  now  ye  've  almost  forgotten  me — but  let  it 
pass — try  my  truth — if  ever  you  should  meet  misfortune — I  say  nothing.' 
Well,  the  fairy  skitted  at  that,  and  clapped  her  silvery  wings,  and  whisked, 
singing,  off  on  a  sunbame ;  but  she  was  hardly  gone,  when  a  black  cloud  grew 
up  out  of  the  north,  all  in  a  minit,  and  the  light  was  shrouded,  and  the  rain  fell 
in  slashings,  like  hail,  and  away  flies  the  fairy  to  her  friend  the  rose. — « Now, 
Rose,'  says  she, '  the  rain  is  come,  so  shelter  and  love  me  still.'  « I  can  hardly 
shelter  my  own  buds,'  says  the  rose,  '  but  the  lily  has  a  deep  cup.'  Well,  the 
poor  little  fairy's  wings  were  almost  wet,  but  she  got  to  the  lily ;  '  Lily,'  says 
she, '  the  storm  is  come,  so  shelter  and  love  me  still.'  '  I  am  sorry,'  says  the 
lily,  '  but  if  I  were  to  open  my  cup,  the  rain  would  bate  in  like  fun,  and  my 
seed  would  be  kil't  entirely — the  tulip  has  long  leaves.'  Well,  the  fairy  was 
down-hearted  enough,  but  she  went  to  the  tulip,  who  she  always  thought  a 
sweet-spoken  gentleman.  He  certainly  did  not  look  as  bright  as  he  had  done 
in  the  sun,  but  she  waved  her  little  wand,  and  « Tulip,'  said  she,  « the  rain  and 
the  storm  are  come,  and  I  am  very  weary,  but  you  will  shelter  and  love  me  still.' 
4  Begone!'  said  the  tulip;  'be  off!'  says  he;  'a  pretty  pickle  I'd  be  in  if  I  let 
every  wandering  scamper  come  about  me.' — Well,  by  this  time,  she  was  very 
tired,  and  her  wings  hung  dripping  at  her  back — wet  indeed — but  there  was  no 
help  for  it,  and,  laneing  on  her  pretty  silver  wand,  she  limped  off  to  the  violet ; 
and  the  darlint  little  flower,  with  its  blue  eye,  that 's  clear  as  a  kitten's,  saw 
her  coming,  and  never  a  word  she  spoke,  but  opened  her  broad  green  leaves, 
and  took  the  wild  wandering  craythur  to  her  bosom,  and  dried  her  wings  and 
breathed  the  sweetest  perfumes  over  her,  and  sheltered  her  until  the  storm  was 
clane  gone.  Then  the  humble  violet  spoke,  and  said — '  Fairy  Queen,  it  is  bad 
to  flirt  with  many,  for  the  love  of  one  true  heart  is  enough  for  earthly  woman, 
or  fairy  spirit ;  the  ould  and  humble  love  is  better  than  the  gay  compliments  of 
a  world  of  flowers,  for  it  will  last  when  the  others  pass.'  And  the  fairy  knew 
that  it  was  true  for  the  blue  violet ;  and  she  contented  herself  ever  after,  and 
built  her  downy  bower  under  the  wide-spreading  violet  leaves,  that  sheltered  her 
from  the  rude  winter's  wind  and  the  hot  summer's  sun ;  and  to  this  very  day 
the  fairies  love  the  violet  beds." 

Anty  smiled,  and  suffered  Bang's  ears  to  escape,  when  the  story  was 
finished.  Grey  Lambert  smiled  also,  and,  as  she  was  departing,  inquired  if 
her  parents  knew  of  the  contract  ?  She  frankly  replied  jn  the  negative ;  and 
the  old  man  accompanied  the  little  gipsy  to  her  father's  cabin,  where  the  news 
was  joyfully  received.  Everybody  liked  Patrick ;  and,  moreover,  everybody 
suspected  that  in  some  sly  corner  the  old  man  had  wherewithal  to  make  a 
plentiful  wedding. 

Nothing    happened    to    prevent    matters   coming  to  a  happy  termination. 

Thomas  Clavery  and   Patrick  Lambert  returned  on  the  same  day.      The 

gown-piece  was    declared  to  be   an    "  uncommon    beauty,"    even  by  Mrs. 

Cassidy ;  and  a  time  was  fixed  for  the  wedding : — but  where  do  you  suppose 

22 


170  THE    BANNOW   POSTMAN. 

it  was  celebrated  ?  In  no  other  place,  I  assure  you,  than  in  Grey  Lambert's 
old  castle. 

"  It 's  a  fancy,  I  know,"  said  he,  "  and  a  strange  one,  but  I  can't  help  it ;  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  can  trot  off  to  their  nate  little  cabin,  that's  all  ready  for 
them,  and  that  I  defy  any  one  to  say  wants  a  single  thing ;  and  it  will  make  me 
happy  to  know  that  once  more  laughter  and  music  will  visit  the  ancient  castle 
of  Coolhull." 

Such  a  wedding  was  never  seen  in  the  country  from  that  day  to  this ;  it 
was  a  most  wonderful  wedding !  More  than  fifty  long  torches,  of  bog -wood, 
were  stuck  up  and  down  in  the  walls,  and  the  ivy  and  wild  plants  formed  a 
singular  but  not  unpleasing  contrast  to  the  grey  stones  and  flaring  lights. — 
One  end  of  the  dilapidated  hall  was  reserved  for  dancing ;  and  there,  on  a 
throne  of  turf,  sat  the  immortal  Kelly ;  a  deep  jug  of  whiskey  punch  close  to 
his  footstool,  and  he  "  blowing  away  for  the  dear  life"  on  his  pipes.  At  the 
other  end  was  a  long  table,  formed  of  deal  spars — covered  with  such  cloths, 
plates,  (fishes,  glasses,  noggins,  jugs,  and  sundries,  as  the  neighbouring  farm- 
houses could  lend — placed  on  stones  and  turf,  and  sufficiently  elevated.  What 
a  supper! — rounds  of  beef — turkeys — geese — such  profusion! — the  "wedding 
of  Ballyporeen"  was  nothing  to  it !  And  when  the  cake  was  fairly  cut,  Father 
Mike's  perquisites  were  many,  for  Grey  Lambert,  whose  reported  wealth  was 
no  jest,  laid  down  a  golden  guinea  on  the  plate.  He  had  bidden  many  of  the 
neighbouring  gentry  to  the  marriage,  and,  as  the  old  man  was  much  respected, 
and  the  arrangements  very  singular,  there  were  few  apologies.  The  great 
hall  was,  at  an  early  hour,  nearly  filled  with  motley  company;  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  farmers  and  farmers'  wives,  "  boys  and  girls"  of  all  ranks,  in  their 
Sunday  gear,  and  with  happy  joyous  faces ;  some  whispering  so  closely  that 
Father  Mike  was  led  to  believe  a  few  more  weddings  would  take  place  before 
Lent;  then  the  Babelish  noises! — Kelly's  pipes — merry  laughter — loud  toasts 
— the  no-light-footed  jig — and  the  continued  buz-buz  of  the  busy  tongues. 
The  clergyman  and  the  parish  priest  sat  at  the  same  table ;  and  it  must  be 
confessed  that  neither  Ude's  nor  Kitchener's  sauces  were  wanting  to  make  the 
feast  palatable. 

Grey  Lambert  danced  most  merrily  with  the  young  ladies  from  the  Parsonage, 
and  "  bate  them  off  the  flure,"  at  the  Irish  jig.  The  bride  looked  provokingly 
pretty  and  mischievous ;  and  the  boatswain,  who  came  from  Waterford  to  the 
ceremony,  sung  not  only — 

•*  Anty,  the  darlint  of  the  land, 
Is  still  her  Paddy's  pride.' 

but  composed  extemporaneous  verses  on  the  occasion,  which  were  received 
with  much  applause. 

Was  that  all  ?    No ;  in  the  far  corner  sat  Thomas  and  Mary  Clavery ! 

John  Williams,  whose  dislike  to  conversation  disappeared  in  a  very  odd  way, 


THE    BANNOW    POSTMAN. 


171 


probably  owing  to  his  continued  potations,  annoyed  Anty  continually  by 
calling  her  "  Mrs.  Lambert ;"  and  the  old  man  kept  up  the  joke,  somewhat 
unmercifully,  by  now  and  then  reminding  her  of  the  past — "  Sure  I  '11  not  come 
to  see  ye  in  yer  unchristian-like  place,  if  ye  talk  after  that  fashion  to  a  young 
cratur  like  me !" 

As  his  company  departed,  he  conducted  them  with  the  air  of  a  prince  to 
the  great  gate ;  and  Father  Mike,  after  he  had.  earnestly  prayed  that  his  full 
blessing  might  rest  on  them  all,  declared  he  had  never  been  at  so  happy  a 
wedding. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  state  whether  or  not  Anty  learned  writing,  for  she  was 
able  to  prevail  upon  Patrick  to  "  give  up  the  sea,"  and  content  himself  with  the 
occasional  management  of  a  fishing-boat ;  consequently,  she  was  not  likely,  in 
the  whole  course  of  her  life,  to  receive  another  letter.  She  remembered  the 
fairy  tale,  and  to  the  credit  of  the  sex  be  it  spoken,  left  off  "  her  flirting  ways." 
Grey  Lambert  is  still  in  possession  of  the  old  castle  and  extraordinary  health ; 
and  John  Williams  may  carry  this  tale  to  "  mine  old  home,"  in  his  capacity  as 
THE  BANNOW  POSTMAN. 


LUKE  O'BRIAN. 


WISH,  with  all  my  heart,  I  could  adequately  describe 
Luke  ;  I  have  often  requested  him  to  sit  for  his  picture, 
and,  if  he  had  done  so,  I  think  I  should  have  had  it 
engraved  for  the  benefit  of  the  English  public.  Luke, 
however,  has  what  he  calls  "  a  mortal  objection  to 
his  face  being  in  print."  Therefore,  good  reader,  you 
can  never  have  an  accurate  idea  of  the  subject  of  my 
story.  He  was,  when  I  first  knew  him,  about  two- 
and-twenty  ;  in  height,  six  feet  four  inches ;  slight,  but 
muscular  ;  and  the  too  visible  size  of  his  bones  renders 
him  not  unworthy  of  his  gigantic  nomenclature. 
His  countenance  is  nondescript  —  appertaining  to  no 
particular  nation,  yet  possessing,  it  may  be  said,  the 
deformities  of  all : — an  Austrian  mouth,  French  com- 
plexion, Highland  hair  (of  the  deepest  tint),  small 

(172) 


LUKE  O'BRIAN.  173 

pepper-and-salt  coloured  eyes,  that  constantly  regard  each  other  with  sympathetic 
affection,  and  a  nose  elevated  and  depressed  in  open  defiance  of  the  line  of  beauty, 
are  the  most  striking  objects  in  his  strange  physiognomy ; — in  common  justice, 
I  must  add,  that  his  face  is  remarkably  long,  pale,  and  much  disfigured  by  a  cut 
he  received  from  a  "  hurley"  in  his  boyhood,  which  carried  away  his  left  eye- 
brow, and  a  small  portion  of  his  cheek ;  this  mark,  Luke,  who  is  an  acknowledged 
wag,  terms  "  his  beauty-spot." 

It  was  a  drizzling,  damp  evening,  in  the  month  of  November,  when  the  afore- 
mentioned Luke  O'Brian,  grasping  his  shillalah  in  his  enormous  hand,  passed 
through  the  beautifully  situated  town  of  Enniscorthy ; — glancing  as  he  could  do, 
without  inconvenience,  one  eye  towards  Vinegar-hill,  and  the  other  towards  the 
noble  ruins  of  "  the  Castle,"  he  proceeded  on  his  way,  intending  to  reach  Wex- 
ford  that  night.  Although  Luke  was  a  tall,  stout,  brave  boy,  he  would  rather 
have  been  anywhere  than  just  where  he  was :  with  a  dreary  road  before  him, 
and  no  one  to  speak  to,  the  huge  rocks  looked  frowning  enough,  to  a  lonely 
traveller,  in  the  deepening  twilight,  on  one  side  of  the  way ;  and,  on  the  other, 
rolled  the  dark  blue  waters  of  the  Slaney.  Luke  had  been  serving  writs  in  a 
distant  part  of  the  country ;  he  was  not  a  native  of  the  county  of  Wexford, 
though  selected  for  the  performance  of  this,  by  no  means  safe,  task,  by  an  attor- 
ney, who  shall  be  nameless.  He  had  wandered  away  from  the  right  road,  when 
he  fancied  he  heard  steps  behind  him  ;  his  merry  whistle  sank  into  a  kind  of  hiss, 
and  his  long  legs  trembled  somewhat,  as  he  strode  forward ;  he  soon  ascertained 
that  his  pursuers  were  two  in  number,  and,  from  their  trot-like  walk,  justly  con* 
eluded  that  they  were  short,  stout  men ;  nevertheless,  they  soon  overtook  Luke  ; 
long-shanked  though  he  was,  he  had  no  chance  of  outstriding  them. 

"  May-be  you  've  walked  far  this  bleak  night  ?"  they  inquired, 

"  May-be  I  have,"  replied  Luke. 

"  May-be  ye  're  going  far  on  T" 

"  May-be  so." 

"  How  dim  the  ould  stones  look  in  the  grey  light !"  observed  one  of  the  per- 
severing travellers. 

"  So  they  do." 

"  They  say  they  're  mighty  unlucky,"  continued  one  of  the  men. 

Our  hero  summoned  courage,  and  replied,  firmly,  "  Nothing 's  unlucky  to  a 
stout  heart." 

"  Say  you  so,  my  boy  ?"  exclaimed  the  younger  one ;  "  then  here  goes !"  and 
the  click  of  a  pistol,  that  was  instantly  presented  at  Luke's  breast,  sounded  very 
disagreeably  through  the  dark  night.  His  arms  were  instantly  pinioned,  with 
almost  supernatural  strength,  by  the  fellow-robber,  and  he  was  drawn  back  into 
a  sort  of  fosse,  or  deep  dike,  that  skirted  the  path.  He  shouted  loudly  fo» 
assistance,  but  was  told,  very  coolly,  to  "  hould  his  whisht."  "  Do  ye  think  that 
people  have  nothin'  to  do  but  to  walk  the  road,  to  look  for  young  chaps  in  dis^ 
tress  ?  Hould  yer  whisht,  I  say  !  By  the  powers !  if  ye  don't,  I  '11 " 


174  LUKB  O'BRIAN. 

"  Stop,"  said  the  elder ;  "  as  ye  value  yer  mother's  curse  or  blessing ! — don't 
ye  remember  what  she  said  not  two  hours  agone  1" 

"  Can't  he  give  up  what  he  has  got  ?"  retorted  the  younger ;  "  does  he  think 
I  'm  a  fool,  to  feel  the  cash  in  his  pocket,  and  lave  it  there  ?  I  '11  tell  ye  what," 
he  continued ;  "  give  it  up,  and  ye  shall  meet  wid  genteel  tratement ;  it 's  good 
to  have  to  do  wid  gintlemen,  in  our  trade.  But  look  ye,  my  lad ;  I  've  a  mother 
dying  of  starvation ;  food  hasn't  crossed  her  lips  for  more  than  two  days ;  and 
we  Ve  all  hunted  like  wild  animals,  from  house  and  home.  So,  if  ye  've  a  mother 
of  yer  own,  give  us  the  means  of  saving  her  life." 

"  In  troth,"  replied  Luke,  "  I  never  had  either  father  or  mother,  that  I  know 
of.  But  there, — I  'm  only  a  poor,  lone  boy.  Sure  ye  wouldn't  take  all  I  have 
in  the  world  to  depind  on  ?" 

"  Not  all  ye  have,"  responded  the  elder  of  the  men,  with  a  bitter  groan ;  "  we 
couldn't  take  all  ye  have,  for  ye  have  a  good  name  may-be,  and  that  is  what  we 
can  never  have  again."  They  rifled  the  contents  of  his  leather  bag ;  which  the 
younger  was  about  to  pocket,  when  the  elder  interposed. 

"  It 's  only  five  one-pounders,  and  a  few  bits  of  silver.  And  is  this  all  ye 
have,  for  the  many  times  you  've  been  a'  most  kilt,  sarving  the  law,  to  be  sure  1 
Well,  the  half  of  it  will  do  our  turn :  keep  the  rest.  We  'd  be  long  sorry  to 
take  all  he  had  from  any  fatherless  boy."  The  young  man  grumblingly  re- 
turned half  the  money;  and  Luke,  with  that  natural  cheerfulness  of  feeling, 
the  almost  peculiar  characteristic  of  the  Irish,  felt  as  if  he  had  gained,  not  as 
if  he  had  lost  anything.  Still  he  was  sadly  perplexed; — he  had  wandered 
considerably  from  the  main  road,  and,  in  endeavouring  to  regain  it,  grappled 
amid  what  appeared  an  interminable  wilderness  of  over-grown  fern,  sharp, 
stinging  furze,  and  low  broom-wood — the  most  intricate  thing  in  the  world  to 
escape  from,  as  the  frequent  cuttings  it  receives  from  the  broom-gatherers  make 
it  very  spreading  in  its  under  branches;  then  the  turf-holes,  and  the  various 
inequalities  of  the  ground — now  up,  now  down ;  not  a  star  twinkling  in  the 
firmament — not  a  light  to  tell  of  human  habitation  in  any  direction ;  the  rain 
pouring  unceasingly,  and  the  wind  blowing,  as  Luke  afterwards  declared,  "  in 
whatever  direction  he  turned,  always  in  his  face."  At  length  he  had  almost 
resolved  to  sit  down  quietly  upon  a  rock,  and  wait  the  morning  dawn,  when,  in 
what  appeared  a  high  mound  of  clay,  at  a  short  distance,  he  perceived  a  little 
ray  of  light ;  he  well  knew  that,  in  Ireland,  wherever  there  is  a  roof,  there  is  a 
resting-place  for  the  poorest  traveller ;  and,  guided  by  the  flickering  spark,  he 
soon  arrived  at  what  could  hardly  be  called  a  human  dwelling.  It  was, 
literally  speaking,  a  large  excavation  in  the  earth  ;  two  boards,  nailed  together, 
closed  the  aperture  through  which  the  wretched  inhabitants  entered,  and  a 
hole  in  the  clayey  roof  served  the  double  purpose  of  chimney  and  window. 
For  a  moment  he  rested  outside  the  threshold ;  and,  between  the  intermediate 
blasts,  the  low  murmurings  of  a  female  voice,  in  earnest  prayer,  could  be  dis- 
tinctly heard.  He  pushed  aside  the  unprotecting  door ;  and,  stretched  on  the 
cold,  wet  floor,  with  scarcely  sufficient  straw  to  keep  her  wasted  limbs  from  the 


LUKE  O'BRIAN.  175 

earth,  covered  by  the  remains  of  a  tattered  cloak,  he  saw  the  apparently  dying 
form  of  an  elderly  woman.  The  miserable  rush-candle,  that  had  guided  him  to 
the  hovel,  was  stuck  in  a  scooped  potato;  her  head  was  supported  by  a 
bundle  of  rags;  a  broken  tea-cup,  and  an  equally  mutilated  plate,  both 
without  either  food  or  liquid,  were  within  reach  of  the  skeleton  hands  that  were 
fervently  clasped  together.  Through  the  opening  in  the  roof,  the  rain  fell  in 
torrents,  forming  sundry  pools  around  the  fireless  hearth ;  and  no  article  of  furni- 
ture of  any  kind  was  visible  in  the  miserable  dwelling-place — the  last  earthly 
home  of  the  departing  spirit  As  Luke  entered,  she  endeavoured  to  turn  her 
head  towards  him,  but  appeared  unable,  and  barely  articulated,  "  Is  that  you, 
Tom,  honey?" 

Luke  returned  the  usual  friendly  salutation  of  "  God  save  all  here  !"  and  ad- 
vanced towards  her.  The  look  of  her  fast-glazing  eye  fixed  steadily  upon  the 
young  man,  and  he  has  often  said,  "  the  freezing  of  that  look  will  never  leave  his 
heart."  I  have  seen  him  shudder  at  the  remembrance.  Slowly  she  pushed 
back  the  grey,  yet  clustering,  hair,  from  her  clammy  brow,  and  gazed  upon 
him  long  and  fixedly.  "Don't  be  frightened,  agra!"  said  he,  at  last;  "I've 
lost  my  way,  and,  may-be,  ye  'd  jist  let  me  wait  here  awhile,  till  the  storm  goes 
by ;  and,  may-be,  also,  ye  'd  fancy  a  bit  of  what  I  've  got  in  my  pocket  (he 
pulled  out  the  fragments  of  some  wheaten  bread) ;  or  a  drop  of  this  would  bring 
the  life  to  yer  heart,  astore."  She  grasped  the  food  he  offered,  with  all  the 
frightful  eagerness  of  famine ;  but,  when  she  endeavoured  to  swallow,  it  almost 
caused  suffocation.  Luke  took  a  little  of  the  rain-water  in  a  broken  cup,  and, 
mixing  with  it  a  small  portion  of  whiskey,  knelt,  and,  gently  supporting  her  head, 
poured  it  down  her  throat.  She  appeared  somewhat  revived ;  and,  placing  her 
long,  bony  fingers  on  his  arm,  whispered : — 

"  God  reward  ye  ! — God  reward  ye ! — may  God  keep  ye  from  bitter  sin ! — 
there 's  nothin'  to  offer  ye,  nor  no  fire  to  dry  ye ! — but  take  the  wet  tacks  off, 
they  '11  give  ye  yer  death  o'  could." 

Luke  obeyed  her  bidding,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  dying  woman  turned 
towards  him  another  long  and  piercing  look.  "  Can  ye  spare  me  a  taste  more 
of  that  cordial,  honey  ?"  she  inquired.  Luke  again  knelt,  in  the  same  position 
as  before,  and  she  drank  with  avidity  of  what  he  offered.  As  he  was  about 
withdrawing  his  arm,  her  eye  fixed  upon  a  mark  that  had  been  engraved  upon 
his  wrist,  by  a  species  of  tattooing,  which  the  Irish,  particularly  along  the  sea- 
coast,  frequently  use.  It  was  of  a  deep  blue,  and  he  had  no  recollection  when 
or  how  it  had  been  impressed.  She  grasped  his  hand  with  fearful  violence, 
and  her  energies  seemed  at  once  awakened.  She  tried  to  articulate;  but, 
although  her  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  sat  upright  on  her  bed  of  straw,  yet  she 
could  not  utter  a  single  sound.  "  Is  it  the  maning  of  that  mark,  ye  want  to 
make  out  ?  Why,  thin,  it 's  just  myself  that  can't  tell  ye,  because,  ye  see,  I 
don't  know :  I  'm  sorry  for  it,  agra  !  but  it  can't  be  helped ;  only  I  often  think 
that,  may-be,  it  will  be  the  manes  of  my  finding  out  who  owns  me,  which,  at 
present,  I  don't  know  from  Adam.  Sorra  a  one  ever  laid  claim  to  me,  only 


176  LUKE  O'BRIAN. 

poor  Peg  O'Brian,  of  Cranaby  Lane,  Cork ;  who  found  me,  as  a  new-year's  gift, 
the  first  day  of  January,  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  seven,  outside " 

A  scream,  loud  and  piercing,  interrupted  Luke ;  and  at  the  same  instant,  the 
•withered  arms  of  the  poor  woman  strained  him,  with  a  strong  grasp,  to  her 
bosom.  "  I  haven't  an  hour  to  live,  boy !"  she  exclaimed  at  last ;  "  and,  oh  !  for 
the  sake  of  the  mercy  you  expect  hereafter,  do  not  throw  from  ye  the  poor, 
sinful,  dying  mother,  that  bore  ye  ; — don't,  don't — for,  oh !  my  child  ! — I  'm  still 
— though  banned  and  starving — I  'm  still  your  mother !" 

Luke  was  much  affected :  he  had  argued  himself  into  the  belief  that  he 
was  a  son  of  one  of  the  nobles  of  the  land ;  and  that,  some  day  or  other,  he 
would,  according  to  his  own  phrase,  "  turn  out  a  lord,  or,  at  the  laste,  a  gentle- 
man ;"  and  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  analyze  the  nature  of  the  contending 
feelings  that  agitated  him.  Pity,  deep  and  affectionate  pity,  for  her  who  had 
just  declared  herself  his  parent,  was,  however,  the  predominant  one ;  and  he 
returned  her  embrace  with  warmth  and  sincerity. 

"  I  must  tell  you  all  I  can,"  she  continued,  in  a  broken  voice ;  "  but  first,  let 
me  ask  ye,  have  ye  been  honest  in  yer  dealings  with  rich  and  poor  ?  Have  ye 
kept  from  the  temptation  of  gould  ? — Och !  but  it 's  the  yellow  and  the  bitter 
curse ! — that  leads — but  tell  me,  tell  me ! — are  ye  honest  ?" 

"  God  knows,"  he  replied,  "  I  never  took  to  the  value  of  a  traneen  from  man 
or  mortal ;  and,  what 's  more,  many  a  gentleman's  son  would  be  glad  to  take  up 
with  the  karacter  of  poor  Luke." 

"  Heaven  be  thanked  for  these  words !"  ejaculated  the  unfortunate  creature ; 
"  for,  in  the  deep  of  misfortune,  the  best  of  comfort  is  come  to  me, — may  the 
Lord  be  praised  !  When  I  dared  to -strive  (sinner  that  I  am)  to  pray,  even  one 
word,  it  was,  that  you  might  be  honest.  All  belonging  to  me  are  bad, — bad. 
My  children — all,  all  but  you,  banned,  cursed, — but  brought  up  as  they  were  ! 
— sure,  the  kittens  of  the  wild  cat  must  seek  the  young  bird's  nest ! — even  now, 
to  bring  me  food,  my  husband,  and  my  other  born  son,  are — no,  not  murder ! — 
they  swore  that  they  wouldn't  take  life." 

The  horrid  truth  flashed  upon  the  young  man's  mind,  that  he  had  encountered 
his  father  and  brother ;  and  he  explained  that  he  had  met  them,  and  told  also  of 
their  generous  conduct  towards  him. 

"  Thank  God ! — but  that  man  is  not  your  father,"  she  said :  "  listen  for  one 
minute.  I  married  a  man  I  hated,  for  money;  but  my  wild,  fierce  passions 
could  not  bear  it — I  broke  his  heart ; — you  were  born  after  his  death — I  loved 
you — but  no  matter — I  loved  also  a  wild  and  wandering  man.  He  was  hand- 
some to  look  upon,  and  he  promised  to  make  an  honest  woman  of  me,  if  I  got 
rid  of  you.  God  had  a  hand  in  ye  for  good,  though  you  needn't  thank  me  for 
it.  So  I  left  ye  in  a  strange  place,  first  setting  my  mark  on  ye ;  and  after, 
whenever  I  could,  I  found  out  that  ye  were  like  an  own  child  to  poor  Peg. 
But  the  love  of  gould  followed  us  both ;  and,  at  last,  the  man  was  transported. 
It  is  quare  how  my  love  for  him  held  out ;  but  it  did.  I  followed  sin,  that  I 
might  be  sent  where  he  was ;  and,  sure  enough,  I  found  him  in  that  land  which 


177 

it's  a  shame  to  mintion.  Still  we  longed  to  get  back  to  ould  Ireland;  and, 
though  we  returned  too  soon,  yet  we  meant  to  do  well ;  but  the  informers  got 
scent  of  him,  and  again  we  were  forced  to  fly.  I  became  a  sorrowful  mother 
to  many  children  ;  and  some  of  them  I  followed  to  the  gallows-tree :  and,  at  last, 
my  heart  turned  to  iron,  and  all  sins  seemed  one ;  but,  if  a  wretch  like  me  can 
say  so — I  heard,  and  I  read  among  some  % loose  leaves  (for  I  had  my  share  of 
laming  once,)  that  came  from  a  house  they  wracked  one  night,  that  there  was 
a  hope  even  for  us !  And  I  tould  thim  of  it,  but  they  laughed  at  me  ;  and,  even 
when  my  heart  feels  burst  and  burning,  I  think  upon  thim,  and  strive  to  pray." 

With  a  trembling  hand  she  drew,  from  under  the  straw,  some  torn  leaves  of 
the  bible. 

"  I  cannot  see  to  lay  them  properly,"  she  said ;  "  but  this  half  I  give  to  you, 
and  these  I  will  leave  here ;  they  will  find  them  when  I  am  dead.  And  God 
can  bless  them — may-be,  to  salvation." 

Luke  took  the  pages,  while  the  tears  flowed  abundantly  down  his  cheeks. 

"  And  now,"  said  she,  "  go.  I  would  not  have  them  know  ye  for  the  world ; 
they  would  want  ye  to  be  like  them.  Go — go — I  shall  see  them ;  for  they  can 
only  get  food  at  night  for  me,  like  the  wild  bastes.  One  thing  more : — in 
Wexford,"  and  she  accurately  described  the  street  and  house,  "  you  will  find 

Father ;  tell  him  all,  and  where  I  am.  Though  none  of  us  are  of  this 

country,  he  knows  me  well — he  will  come;  and  then  you  may  know  where  they  lay 
my  poor  bones,  and,  may-be,  ye'd  say  one  prayer  for  the  soul  of  yer  sinful  mother." 

The  unfortunate  woman  had  only  a  little  ray  of  light  afforded  her  to  point 
the  true  path  to  a  happy  eternity ;  but  to  Luke  it  was  granted,  at  a  future  period, 
to  know  and  profit  by  the  words  of  the  Gospel  of  peace.  That  night  he  hastened 
to  find  the  priest,  who  was  a  kind  and  benevolent  man,  and  hastened  to  his  duty : 
his  mother  died  before  the  next  sunset.  He  has  been  long  settled,  where  his  early 
occupation  is  unknown ;  and  has  often  rejoiced  in  the  hope  that  the  dead  may 
be  received,  even  at  the  eleventh  hour ;  and  prayed  that  he  may  continue  in  the 
right  way ! 


BLACK  DENNIS. 


ELL !?  exclaimed  Michael  Leahy,  as  he  entered  his 
cottage — "  well !  the  Lord  be  praised  ! — I  've  seen  a 
powerful  deal  of  happiness  this  day,  one  way  or  the 
other.  Above,  at  the  big  house,  the  mistress  was 
giving  out  the  medicine,  and  food,  with  her  own  two 
§  blessed  hands,  to  half  the  parish ;  there  she  was,  at 
the  closet  window,  slaving  herself  for  the  poor — 
that's  Christianity!"  He  proceeded  to  shake  the 
snow  from  his  "  big  coat,"  and  hang  it  up.  "  It 's  a 
powdering  night  of  snow,  as  ever  came  out  of  the 
heavens ;  but,  any  how,  we  have  a  roof  to  shelter  us, 
thank  God ! — to  say  nothin'  o'  the  sod  o'  turf,  and 
the  boiling  pratees ;  and  the  master  gave  me  a  good 
quarter  o'  tobaccy ;  so  now,  Norry,  lay  by  your 
spinning,  and  let 's  have  our  bit  o'  supper." 
"With  all  the  joy  in  life,  Mick— and  thank  God, 


BLACK    DENNIS.  179 

too,  that  my  husband  comes  home,  when  his  work  is  done,  to  his  wife  and 
childer." 

Mick  Leahy  looked  affectionately  at  his  wife — and  well  he  might.  She  was 
clean  and  industrious — cheerful  and  contented  :  the  mud  walls  of  her  cabin  were 
whitewashed  ;  a  glass  window,  small,  but  unbroken,  looked  out  on  a  little  garden, 
stocked  with  potatoes  and  cabbages,  and  hedged  with  furze.  No  labourer  in 
the  country  had  thicker  stockings. than  Mick  Leahy — they  were  his  wife's  knit- 
ting ;  no  whiter  shirts  were  on  the  town-land  than  Mick  Leahy's — and  they 
were  all  of  his  wife's  spinning.  No  finer  children  knelt  to  receive  the  priest's 
blessing  on  a  summer  Sunday,  than  Mick  Leahy's ;  and  proud  were  father  and 
mother  of  them. 

"  God  help  all  poor  travellers ! — it 's  blake  and  bitther  weather,"  continued 
Mick,  as  he  lit  his  pipe,  and  took  his  seat  on  the  settle,  under  the  wide  chimney, 
after  he  had  finished  his  supper ;  "  I  wish  some  unfortunate  cratur  had  a  share 
of  the  chimbly-corner,  for  there  '11  be  neither  hedge  nor  ditch  to  be  seen  by 
morning,  if  it  snows  on  in  this  way." 

"  It  does  my  heart  good  to  see  little  Mary  bless  herself  when  she  lays  her  head 
down  for  the  night,"  said  Norah,  coming  out  of  their  only  bedroom — which  was 
always  in  neat  order.  "  And  then,  Lanty  has  the  Ave-Mary  and  all,  so  pat ; — 
och !  Mick,  honey,  't  is  sweet  to  look  at  childer — and  very  sweet  to  look  at  one's 
own  childer ;  but  it 's  bitter  to  think  that,  one  day,  may-be,  they  may  come  to 
sin  and  shame." 

"  No  child  of  mine,  Norah,"  said  the  father,  proudly,  "  shall  ever  come  to  sin 
or  shame." 

"  Whisht,  Mick,  whisht !"  said  the  meek  mother  ;  "  we  are  all  born  to  sin,  you 
know — but  God  keep  away  shame  ! — all  we  can  do  is  to  pray  for,  and  show  them 
a  good  patthern." 

"  Then,  that 's  true,  and  spoken  sinsible,  like  my  own  Norry,"  replied  the 
father ;  "  and  the  blessing  o'  God  will  always  be  about  you  and  yours,  at  any 
rate.  What ! — agin  to  the  wheel !  Well,  y  're  never  idle — I  '11  say  that  for  ye." 

Bur,  bur — went  the  wheel,  and  the  turf  sparkled ;  still  the  storm  increased,  and 
shook  the  little  cabin,  that  seemed  almost  beneath  its  vengeance. 

"Was  there  any  signs  of  fire-light  in  the  place  on  the  far  moor,  as  ye  passed 
it  ?"  inquired  Norah. 

"  None,  that  I  see,"  replied  the  husband. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mick,  I  never  could  make  them  people  out ;  there 's  the  three 
of  'em  live  upon  nothin'  at  all — that  I  can  think  of;  they  never  beg— they  never 
work.  Lanty  met  the  child,  this  morning,  picking  bits  o'  sticks  near  the  moor- 
hedge,  and  he  tould  him  his  daddy  was  dying,  and  his  mammy  not  much  better  ; 
so  Lanty  brought  him  home,  and  I  gave  him  plenty  to  ate,  and  as  many  pratees 
as  he  could  carry  away,  and  a  morsel  o'  white  bread ;  and,  to  be  sure,  he  ate, 
the  cratur,  as  if  he  was  starved;  but  was  so  shy  and  wild — like  a  young  fox-cub 
—that  I  could  get  nothin'  out  of  him." 

"  Of  all  the  men  I  ever  see,  in  my  born  days,  that  man  has  the  black-heart 


180  BLACK   DENNIS. 

look.  The  wicked  one — Heaven  bless  us ! — set  his  mark  between  his  two  eyes, 
or  he  never  did  it  to  anybody  yet." 

"  Hush,  Mick  ! — is  that  the  wind  shaking  the  windy,  or  a  knock  of  the  door  ?" 

The  knock  was  distinctly  repeated,  and  Mick  inquired  who  was  there  ?  A 
female  voice  requested  admission,  and,  on  his  opening  the  door,  a  tall  woman, 
enveloped  in  a  long  blue  cloak,  entered ;  when  in  the  cottage,  she  threw  back 
the  hood  that  had  quite  covered  her  face ;  it  might  once  have  been  handsome, 
but  want  and  misery  had  obliterated  its  beauty,  and  given  an  almost  maniac 
expression  to  eyes  both  dark  and  deep ;  the  hair  was  partly  confined  by  a  check- 
ered kerchief;  and  the  outline  of  the  figure  would  have  been  worthy  the  pencil 
of  Salvator. 

"  Ye  don't  know  me,  and  so  much  the  betther ;  but  I  am  wife  to  him  that 's 
dying  on  the  far  moor ;  and  I  want  you,  Mick  Leahy,  to  go  to  Father  Connor, 
and  ask  him,  for  the  love  of  God,  to  come  to  the  departing  sinner,  and — if  he 
can — give  him  some  comfort." 

"Sit  down,"  said  Norry,  kindly;  shrinking,  nevertheless,  from  her  visiter. 
"  'T  is  an  awful  night,  and  a  long  step  to  his  reverence's ;  but  Mick  will  do  a 
good  turn  for  any  poor  sinner :  yet  I  wonder  ye  didn't  call  to  himself,  and  ye 
passed  close  by  his  gate  coming  here." 

"  Me  call  on  a  priest !"  half  screamed  the  woman ;  "  me,  the  cast-away ! — 
the  thing  that 's  shunned  as  soon  as  seen ! — Me ! — but  do  not  look  so  at  me,  Norry 
Leahy ! — do  not.  Ye  were  kind  enough,  this  morning,  to  my  starving  boy ;  ye 
sent  food  to  my  miserable  cabin !  Do  not — do  not !  Now,  when  he  is  dying ! 
Bad  as  he  is,  Norry,  he  is  still  my  husband." 

"  Asy,  asy,"  said  Mick ;  "  I  do  not  care  who  he  is !  Sure,  we  're  all  sinners, 
and  God  is  good :  he  may  get  betther." 

"  No,  no,  I  do  not  wish  him  that ;  he  has  nothing  to  live  for :  the  ban  is  on  him  ; 
and,  if  he  was  known,  even  here,  he  would  be  torn  in  pieces." 

Mick  and  Norah  exchanged  glances,  and  slowly  did  the  former  take  his  long 
coat  off  the  peg;  and  wistfully  did  poor  Norah  look  at  her  husband,  for  the 
woman's  wildness  had  quite  overpowered  her ;  yet,  to  refuse  going  for  a  priest, 
•was  what  no  Irishman  ever  did,  and  she  thought  it  was  her  husband's  duty ;  her 
fears,  for  a  moment,  conquered  her  resolution,  when  he  was  in  the  act  of  open- 
ing the  door ;  and,  laying  her  hand  gently  on  the  woman's  cloak,  she  said,  with 
a  quivering  lip — 

"  And  wont  ye  tell  us  yer  name ;  and  Mick  going  to  do  yer  bidding?" 

"  Ye  will  have  it,  Norry  Leahy,"  replied  she,  almost  fiercely — "  Anne  Dennis ! 
— my  husband  was  called  Black  Dennis,  the  informer !" 

Norah  staggered  back,  and  Mick  withdrew  his  hand  from  the  latch. 

"  Ye  will  not  go,  then  ?"  said  the  unfortunate  creature ;  "  and,  because  he  's  a 
sinner,  ye  think  he  should  be  left  to  die  like  a  dog  in  a  ditch ;  and  you,  Norry, 
you  shrink  from  me ;  and  what  power  have  I  to  harm  ye  ? — look  !"  She  threw 
back  her  cloak ;  a  worn  jacket  and  petticoat  hardly  shrouded  so  perfectly  skeleton 
a  form,  that  poor  Norah  looked  on  her  with  pity  and  astonishment.  "  Look ! — 


BLACK    DENNIS.  181 

and  say,  if  I  have  power  to  harm ! — I  have  hardly  strength  enough  to  hold  his 
dying  head  off  the  cold  earth." 

"  I  '11  go,  in  the  name  o'  mercy,"  said  Mick,  "  though  it 's  little  he  de.serves  a 
good  turn  from  any  one,  even  on  his  death-bed." 

Norah  was  horrified  at  her  husband's  visiting  one  who  had  brought  sorrow  to 
so  many  dwellings;  but  he  was  gone,  and  she  was  left,  in  her  cottage  solitude, 
to  brood  over  what  she  had  just  heard  and  seen.  "  Black  Dennis"  had  been  a 
United  Irishman,  and  one  of  the  most  violent  order — the  projector  of  more  burn- 
ings, murders,  and  robberies,  than  any  chief  of  them  all ;  and  when,  at  last,  he 
found  that  he  could  no  longer  carry  on  the  system  of  rebellion  and  plunder,  into 
which  he  had  drawn  so  many  unfortunate  victims,  he  turned  king's  evidence ; 
many  were  the  men  either  transported  or  executed  on  his  statements — all  less 
guilty  than  himself.  No  wonder,  then,  that  Black  Dennis  was  regarded  with 
peculiar  sentiments  of  abhorrence,  and  that,  wherever  he  went,  he  was  a  banned 
man  !  His  wife  had  shared  his  plunder,  and  exulted  in  his  deeds,  when  he  was 
a  bold  rapparee ;  but,  when  he  became  a  cold-blooded  informer,  she  spurned 
both  him  and  his  wealth,  and  left  him  to  his  wanderings.  He  went  abroad,  but 
his  ill-got  gold  wasted  and  wasted  ;  and  he  returned  to  his  native  country,  "  to 
lave  his  bones,"  as  he  said,  "among  his  own  people." 

His  wife  had  been  no  less  miserable  than  himself;  and,  when  her  wretched 
husband  made  his  appearance  at  her  poor  door,  she  felt  relieved  at  beholding 
the  only  being  who  could  truly  appreciate  her  varied  sufferings:  his  money  was 
gone — he  was  dying  a  lingering  death ;  and  her  still  woman's  heart  yearned 
towards  its  early  affection.  They  could  not  remain  in  the  village  where  she  and 
her  boy  resided  ;  because,  there,  Black  Dennis  would  soon  have  been  recognized  ; 
so  she  sold  the  few  articles  of  furniture  and  clothing  she  possessed,  and  went 
away  with  her  husband,  that  he  might  die  in  peace  on  "  the  far  moor."  Her 
anxiety  to  procure  for  him  the  rites  of  the  church  in  his  last  moments,  overcame 
her  repugnance  to  discovery ;  and  a  sort  of  holy  fear  prevented  her  going  to  the 
priest  herself:  the  kindness  shown  by  the  Leahys  to  her  child,  induced  her  to 
confide  in  them;  and  silently,  but  thankfully,  she  accompanied  Mick  to  Mr. 
Connor's  house. 

The  good  priest  went  with  his  guides  to  the  hut  where  the  informer  lay.  It 
was,  in  truth,  meet  dwelling  for  such  a  man  :  "  the  far  moor"  showed  an  extensive 
waste  of  snow,  with  but  one  tree  to  break  its  white  surface ;  and  the  hovel 
rested  against  its  immense  trunk,  which,  having  escaped  the  axe  and  the 
tempest,  stripped  even  of  its  bark  by  time,  threw  far  and  wide  its  knotted  and 
distorted  limbs,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm. 

The  sands  of  life  were  nearly  run.  Black  Dennis  lay  extended  on  some  straw, 
scarcely  covered  by  portions  of  tattered  clothing,  and  his  head  rested  on  the 
knees  of  his  boy ;  he  moved  it  quickly  as  they  entered,  and  pressed  a  little  wooden 
cross  to  his  lips :  the  priest  poured  a  cordial  down  his  throat,  and,  for  a  few 
moments,  he  revived. 

"  That  man  need  not  go,"  said  he,  seeing  Mick  about  to  take  his  departure 


182  BLACK    DENNIS. 

in  order  that  the  sinful  man  might  confess ;  "  I  have  nothing  to  tell  but  what  all 
the  world  knows ;  nothing  to  say,  except  that  my  heart  is — hell !  Oh  !  will  your 
reverence  tell  me," — and  he  raised  his  head  from  the  child's  lap — "  if  there  is 
hope  for  me,  the  murderer,  thef burner,  the  rebel,  the  INFORMER?" — Madly  his 
glaring  eyes  watched  for  a  reply. 

"  There  is  hope  for  all,"  replied  Father  Connor,  "  through  God's  mercy." 

The  head  fell  back,  the  eye  fixed,  the  lip  quiveringly  uttered  "  Hope,"  and 
Black  Dennis  was  no  more. 

The  unfortunate  widow  shed  no  tears,  but  knelt  and  gazed  on  him  who  had 
known  so  much  sin,  and  endured  so  much  sorrow :  the  child  clung  around  its 
mother's  neck,  and  wept  bitterly.  Leahy  endeavoured  to  rouse  her  from  her 
stupor,  but  in  vain.  "  I  cannot  leave  her  in  this  way ;  and  the  poor  boy — he 's 
innocent  any  way ;  and  that 's  not '  Black  Dennis'  now,  but  only  a  lump  o'  dust ! 
Yer  reverence,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

The  priest  stooped  down,  and  endeavoured  to  disengage  the  child  from  the 
parent :  this  aroused  her.  "  My  boy  ! — my  boy !"  and  the  tears  flowed  from  eyes 
to  which  they  had  long  been  strangers.  "'Ye '11  put  him  in  holy  ground,  Father  ?" 
said  she,  looking  at  the  priest  "  Ye  '11  not  deny  even  an  informer  Christian 
burial  ?  I  know  '2  would  be  a  bad  example  to  bury  him  by  daylight ;  but,  by  night, 
what  would  hinder  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Connor,  "  to-morrow  night,  I  will  see  that  duty  properly 
performed ;  and  now  I  can  only  commend  you  to  the  mercy  of  God." 

The  grey  morning  dawned  on  Leahy  and  his  good  Norah,  tracing  their  path 
to  the  hut  on  the  far  moor.  "  It  would  be  a  sin,"  said  the  latter,  "  to  bear  spite 
and  hatred  to  a  senseless  corpse ;  and,  bad  as  the  woman  was,  she  left  him  when 
he  turned  informer."  During  the  day,  the  priest  procured  a  rude  coffin,  and, 
with  the  assistance  of  one  of  his  own  people,  by  the  light  of  the  waning  moon, 
that  shed  her  cold  rays  over  the  snow-clad  country,  in  a  corner  of  the  old  church- 
yard— far  from  any  other  grave — the  body  of  Black  Dennis  was  deposited. 

No  inducement  could  prevail  on  the  unfortunate  woman  to  forsake  the  grave : 
she  sat  on  it,  wrapped  in  her  long  blue  cloak,  and  suffered  her  boy  to  be  led  away 
by  the  priest  to  his  own  dwelling — for  the  amiable  man  could  not  bear  to  leave 
a  child  of  six  years  old  exposed  on  so  inclement  a  night. 

When  the  morning  came,  the  woman  was  not  seen ;  the  boy  went  crying  from 
the  churchyard  to  the  hut,  but  could  nowhere  find  his  mother.  He  grew  up  in 
Mr.  Connor's  house,  a  solitary,  but  not  a  friendless,  being — a  melancholy,  gentle 
youth,  whose  intellects  appeared  to  have  suffered  from  the  recollection  of  early 
misery ;  he  was,  nevertheless,  tractable  and  obedient,  and  devotedly  attached  to 
his  benefactor. 

It  was  long  unknown  what  became  of  the  widow.  Some  said  she  was  dead 
— others,  that  she  was  employed  in  unceasing  pilgrimage  and  penance.  Although 
the  death  of  Black  Dennis  was  almost  forgotten,  no  one  cared  to  rebuild  the  hut 
on  the  far  moor ;  and  even  the  village  children,  when  seeking  heath-bells  and 
buttercups,  avoided  the  shadow  of  the  "  Informer's  Tree." 


BLACK    DENNIS.  183 

The  youth,  who  was  always  called  "  Father  Connor's  Ned,"  often  visited  the 
cheerful  Norah  and  her  husband,  and  seemed  particularly  fond  of  every  inhabi- 
tant of  their  happy  cottage.  Mick  Leahy  used  to  lament  that  the  boy  was  an 
"  innocent ;"  but  Norry  would  reply,  "  So  best,  Mick,  for  ye  see,  by  being  weak, 
he  escapes  being  wicked  ;  and  it  was  natural  to  suppose  he  'd  be  one  or  t'  other, 
seeing  he  came  from  a  bad  stock." 

Mick,  and  his  wife  and  family,  had  been  laughing  over  the  embers  of  the  fire, 
one  evening,  telling  tales,  and  singing  old  ballads ;  poor  Ned,  who  formed  one  of 
the  party,  was  even  more  silent  than  usual,  when  he  suddenly  started  up,  and, 
pointing  to  the  window,  exclaimed,  "  Did  you  see  that?" 

"  There,  't  is  passed  now,"  he  continued,  wildly.  "  Norry,  if  ever  there  was 
a  banshee,  that 's  one ;  and  it  is  not  the  first  time,  nor  the  second  either,  that  I  've 
seen  it,  wid  its  large  grey  eyes  fixed  on  me,  so  death-like ;  but  I  don't  think  I 
iver  see  it  more  than  once  in  the  same  year." 

"  A  shadow  certainly  passed  the  windy,  I  '11  take  my  bible  oath,"  said  Mick. 
He  wrent  out,  and,  to  his  astonishment,  no  person  was  visible.  "  God  save  us 
.all !"  said  he,  re-entering  his  cabin,  "  it 's  very  quare." 

Soon  after,  the  simple  boy  returned  home ;  but  the  first  news  the  Leahys 
heard,  next  morning,  was,  that,  on  the  cold  door-stone  of  the  priest's  house,  an 
aged  corpse  was  found — the  worn  and  wasted  corpse  of  Anne  Dennis ! 

The  wretched  wanderer  had,  it  was  afterwards  ascertained,  been  an  occa- 
sional visiter  to  the  neighbourhood ;  anxious,  doubtless,  to  look  upon  her  child, 
yet  careful  to  avoid  discovery,  and  feeling,  most  probably,  that  her  last  hour  was 
come,  she  had  that  night  laid  her  down  at  the  door  of  the  house  that  had  sheltered 
the  only  being  she  loved,  and  expired.  They  buried  her  quietly,  near  her  hus- 
band. The  long  grass,  and  the  broad-leaved  dock,  wave  over  them  in  the  chill 
blast  of  the  winter  evening ;  and,  sometimes,  poor  harmless  Ned  is  seen  to  stand 
and  look,  with  tearful  eyes,  upon  his  parents'  grave. 


MARY  MACGOHARTY'S  PETITION. 

HEN  first  I  saw  Mary,  we  resided  near  London — 
it  may  now  be  some  ten  years  ago  (I  believe  a  mar- 
ried lady  may  "  recollect"  for  a  period  of  ten  years, 
although  it  is  not  exactly  pleasant  to  remember  for 
a  longer  time) ;  she  was  tall,  flat,  and  bony,  exceed- 
ingly clean  and  neat  in  her  dress,  and  yet  attended 
minutely  to  the  costume  of  her  country :  her  cloth 
petticoat  was  always  sufficiently  short  to  display  her 
homely  worsted  stockings ;  her  gown  was  not  spun 
out  to  any  useless  extension,  but  was  met  half  way 
by  her  blue  check  apron — the  "  gown-tail"  being 
always  pinned  in  three-corner  fashion  by  a  huge 
corking-pin ;  her  cap  was  invariably  decorated  by 
a  narrow  lace  border,  "  rale  thread"  (for  she  ab- 
horred counterfeits),  and  secured  on  her  head  by  a 
broad  green  riband.  But  Mary's  dress,  strange  as  it 
was,  never  took  off  the  attention  from  the  expression  of  her  extraordinary  face; 
it  was  marvellous  to  look  upon  ;  and,  had  it  been  formed  of  cast-iron,  could  not 
have  been  more  firm  or  immovable.  Her  forehead  was  high,  and  projected 
over  large  brown  eyes,  that  wandered  about  unceasingly  from  corner  to  corner ; 

•      '  (184) 


185 

her  nose — stiff,  tightly  cased  in  its  parchment  skin ;  cheek-bones—high  and  pro- 
jecting :  and  such  a  mouth  !  She  talked  unceasingly ;  but  the  lips  moved  directly 
up  and  down,  like  those  of  an  eloquent  bull-frog,  never  relaxing  into  a  simper, 
much  less  a  smile :  even  when  she  shed  tears  (for  poor  Mary  had  been  acquainted 
with  sorrow),  they  did  not  flow  like  ordinary  tears,  but  came  spouting — spouting 
— from  under  her  firm-set  eyelids,  and  made  their  way  down  her  sun-burnt  cheeks, 
without  exciting  a  single  symptom  of  sympathy  from  the  surrounding  features. 
She  was  a  good  creature,  notwithstanding;  sincere — I  was  going  to  say,  to 
excess.  She  prided  herself  upon  being  a  "  blunt,  honest,  God-fearing,  and  God- 
serving  woman,  as  any  in  the  three  kingdoms,  let  t'  other  be  who  she  might,"  and 
possessed  a  clan-like  attachment  to  her  employers.  I  have  been  frequently  struck 
with  the  difference  between  Irish  and  English  servants  in  this  respect ;  an  English 
servant  always  endeavours  to  erect  her  standard  of  independence  without  any 
reference  to  her  master's  name  or  fame ;  but  Paddys  and  Shelahs  lug  in  the 
greatness,  the  ancient  family,  the  virtues,  and  the  wealth  (when  they  possess  any,) 
on  all  occasions.  "  Sure,  an'  Mabby,  you  may  hould  your  whisht  any  way," 
said  one  servant  to  another;  "  what  dacency  did  you  ever  see?  Who  did  you 
live  wid  1  A  taste  of  an  English  grocer ! — who  hadn't  a  drop  of  dacent  blood 
in  his  veins — only  trade,  why  ? — the  poor  spillogue  ! — but  I  can  lay  my  hand  on 
my  heart,  and  declare,  in  truth  and  honesty,  that  I  always  lived  wid  the  best  o' 
good  families ;  and  what  signifies  the  trifle  o'  wages  in  comparison  to  the 
nobility,  and  the  credit  1  Sure,  if  we  must  be  slaves,  it 's  a  grate  comfort  to 
have  the  rale  gintry  over  us  !" 

Mary  performed  her  duty  as  cook  in  our  service  admirably,  for  some  time, 
and  was  most  trustworthy :  but  in  an  evil  hour,  on  a  Saint  Patrick's  day,  she 
obtained  leave  to  visit  her  son,  a  soldier  in  the  guards,  to  make  holiday,  and 
faithfully  promised  to  be  home  by  ten  o'clock.  Ten,  eleven — no  Mary ;  at  last, 
with  the  awful  hour  of  twelve,  came — no  spirit  from  the  vasty  deep,  I  assure 
youj  but  Mary,  poor  Mary,  in  the  watchman's  arms,  perfectly — (and  I  sincerely 
grieve  at  being  obliged  to  tell  the  truth),  not  ill,  nor  nervous,  nor .  elevated,  nor, 
as  the  Irish  call  it,  "  disguised,"  but  absolutely,  stupidly,  and  irrecoverably,  tipsy ! 
What  a  piece  of  work  there  was  in  the  house ! — cook  was  conveyed  to  bed, 
and,  of  course,  dismissed  the  next  morning.  I  was  very  sorry,  I  confess ;  but 
mamma  was  never  prone  to  alter  her  decree,  and  the  duty  was  done.  Mary 
cried — offered  to  take  an  oath  against  whiskey,  gin,  brandy,  rum — anything  and 
everything — if  she  might  only  obtain  pardon;  and,  when  all  was  useless, 
departed  in  sullen  silence,  hardly  leaving  "  God  be  wid  ye ;"  although  she  after- 
wards declared  "  that,  barring  it  would  be  a  most  cruel  sin,  and  what  no  true- 
born  Irish  soul  ever  did,  she  would  lave  her  curse  wid  Saint  Patrick's  day  for 
the  rest  of  its  life ;  for  when  poor  innocent  people  met  to  have  '  granough,'  they 
forgot  themselves,  to  do  honour  to  the  holy  saint — why  not?  though  it's  a  rale 
pity ;  and,  och !  if  the  mistress  herself  would  just  now  and  thin  take  only  a  thim- 
bleful, she  would  not  be  so  hard  upon  the  poor  craturs  who  are  overtaken  by 
the  drop." 
24 


186 

It  was  a  long  time  before  I  heard  anything  more  of  poor  Mary ;  summer 
and  winter,  and  again  summer,  and  again  winter,  passed,  and,  at  last,  I  became, 
from  a  giddy,  laughing  girl,  a  staid,  reflective  matron,  with  a  tolerable  share  of 
cares,  and  a  large  portion  of  happiness  of  the  sweetest  kind,  springing  from  a 
cheerful  home,  and  beloved  faces — its  dearest  ornaments !  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten my  old  friend,  her  peculiarities,  and  her  Saint  Patrick's  frolic,  when  I 
was,  one  morning,  informed  that  an  Irishwoman  wanted  to  speak  to  me.  In  a 
few  minutes  Mary  Macgoharty  was  ushered  in — the  very  same  as  ever ;  even 
the  corking-pin  in  the  back  of  her  gown  seemed  unmoved;  there  she  stood, 
looking  at  me,  with  her  midnight  eyes,  until,  at  last,  the  torrent  poured  down  her 
wrinkled  cheeks. 

"  And  there  ye  are,  God  be  good  to  ye ! — looking  brave  and  hearty,  only  a 
dale  fatter;  och,  it  seems  quite  heart-cheering  to  see  a  body  with  kivered  bones 
these  bad  times  !  I  'm  worn  to  a  'nottomy  wid  grief  and  hardship ;  and  I  'd  have 
been  often  to  see  ye,  before  now,  only  ye  're  married,  and  I  thought,  may-be, 
the  young  master  wouldn't  like  to  have  a  thing  like  me  coming  about  the  house ; 
only,  ye  mind  the  ould  whiskey-man,  the  poor  boy  what  used  to  bring  it, .  ye 
know,  from  Donovan's,  that  fetches  it  over  from  Cork,  pure  as  anything,  only 
not  quite  so  strong — he  can't  help  that :  well,  I  was  strolling  about,  there,  by 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  wondering  how  the  people  spent  their  money  that  lived 
in  them  big  houses,  and  a  cratur  like  me  often  in  want  of  a  mouthful  o'  pratees, 
let  alone  bread,  when  who  should  I  spy  coming  along — just  the  morral  of  the 
ould  thing — but  Paddy  Dasey ;  his  face  as  red  as  a  turf  fire ;  and  his  two  bags, 
one  swinging  before,  and  one  behind,  to  hould  the  whiskey  jars.  Well,  ma'am, 
my  dear,  he  had  always  the  swing,  as  who  should  say,  '  the  street 's  my  own ;' 
and,  on  account  of  his  being  so  tall,  and  the  eye  he  has  left  always  skying — 
he  'd  ha'  walked  over  me,  only  I  says,  says  I,  '  Paddy,  have  ye  no  sight  for  an 
ould  countrywoman  V  Well,  he  looks  down,  and,  after  a  hearty  shake  by  the 
hand,  we  walks  fair  and  asy  to  a  sate ;  and  then  I  tould  him  how  long  I  'd  been 
out  o'  place,  and  the  heart  trouble  I  'd  met  with.  Well,  he  wanted  me  to  take  a 
drop,  very  civil ;  but  I  tould  him  of  the  obligation  I  had  taken  on  myself  when 
I  left  the  best  sarvice,  the  best  mistress,  and  the  nicest  young  lady  that  ever  trod 
English  ground ;  and  he  remembered  it,  too ;  for  he  used  to  come  with  the 
whiskey  to  the  dear  ould  master  (heaven  be  his  bed — amin !)  but,  says  he,  why 
don't  you  go  see  the  young  mistress?  I  Ml  go  bail  she  '11  be  glad  to  see  ye:  and 
then  he  spoke  very  handsome  of  his  honour,  yer  husband,  who,  he  says,  is  almost 
as  good  as  if  he  was  an  Irishman  like  you ! — and  tould  me  as  how  he  sometimes 
bought  whiskey,  and  that  you  had  the  bit  and  the  sup,  kind  as  ever  ye  had  it 
whin  ye  used  to  taze  the  life  out  o'  me,  by  axing  me  always  what  o'clock  it  was, 
till  that  scald  parrot,  mistress's  pet,  used  to  begin  at  four  in  the  morning,  '  Mary, 
what  o'clock  is  it? — Mary,  what  o'clock  is  it?'  Ah,  thin,  what's  come  of  the 
parrot,  Miss — ma'am — I  ax  yer  pardon  ?" 

"  It '»  dead,  Mary." 

"  Och,  murder ! — is  she  dead  ?     Well,  I  '11  be  dead  myself  soon ;  stiff  as  a 


MARY  MACGOHARTY'S  PETITION.  187 

red-herring,  and  no  good  in  me  even  for  the  worms,  for  sorra  a  morsel  o'  flesh 
is  on  my  bones !  I  thought  I  'd  just  take  Paddy  Dasey's  advice,  and  tell  ye  my 
trouble ;  and  now  I  'm  just  come  to  ye,  for  God's  sake,  knowing  ye  can  turn 
yer  hand  to  the  pen  at  any  time ;  and  on  account  of  'Squire  Bromby,  who  is 
here  now,  making  speeches  in  the  English  Parliament,  like  ony  Trojan  as  he 
is — though,  for  sartin,  his  father  was  not  that  afore  him ;  though  that 's  neither 
here  nor  there,  as  a  body  may  say.  Now,  on  account  of  the  young  'Squire 
(who  isn't  the  ould,  because  the  ould  one 's  dead — small  loss  !) — seeing  my  father 
(he  was  a  wonderful  clear-spoken  man,  of  a  poor  body,  and  had  powerful  lam- 
ing) lived  a  matter  of  five-and-forty  years  on  the  'Squire  Bromby's  estate  (he 
that 's  dead,  this  boy's  father,) — I  being  a  poor,  desolate,  lone  woman,  with  no 
one  belonging  to  me — barring  the  boy  that 's  in  the  Life  Guards,  and  had  the 
ill  luck  (God  break  hard  fortune !)  to  marry  a  scrap  of  an  English  girl,  who  had 
neither  family  nor  fortune,  nor  a  decent  tack  to  her  back,  and  was  married  in 
a  dab  of  a  borrowed  white  rag  of  a  goiund,  not  worth  a  teaster — and  he  a  likely 
boy  (and  everybody  knows  the  English  girls  'ud  give  their  eyes — small  loss  it 
'ud  be  to  some  of  them — for  an  Irish  boy)  as  ye  'd  see  in  a  day's  march  (ye  mind, 
my  first  husband  was  a  soldier,  and  my  second,  too ;  I  'm  a  Mac,  in  earnest,  as  a 
body  may  say;  my  own  name,  Mac  Manus;  my  first's  name,  Macgoharty; 
my  second's,  Mac  Avoy ; — though  I  go  by  poor  Jim's  name,  Macgoharty — Mary 
Macgoharty,  at  your  sarvice — becase  I  liked  him  the  best;  not  but  the  second 
was  a  fine  boy,  too ;  but  there 's  nothing  goes  past  first  love) — well,  I  humbly 
ax  yer  pardon,  but  I  always  like  to  tell  a  thing  out  of  the  face  at  once,  without 
any  bating  about  the  bush;  so,  as  I  was  saying,  my  poor  father  (God  rest  his 
soul !)  lived  five-and-forty  years  to  the  good  on  his  honour's  father's  estate,  in 
pace,  plinty,  and  contintment,  and  no  one  could  iver  say  to  him,  '  black  is  the 
white  o'  yer  eye.'  May-be  ye  mind  whin  ould  'Squire  Bromby  was  returned 
for  Tipperary — though  it's  as  much  as  ye  can,  for  ye  weren't  born  at  the  time; 
and  who  set  up,  too,  but  Jack  Johnson? — 'Squire  Jack  they  called  him; — 
though  I  was  but  a  girleen  at  the  time,  I  niver  could  turn  my  tongue  to  say 
'  'Squire  Jack,'  and  he  only  a  bit  of  a  brewer ;  well,  my  father  (oh !  he  was  down 
honest)  stood  up  for  the  ould  gentry ;  and,  seeing  he  was  so  main  strong,  'Squire 
Bromby  made  him  one  of  the  picked  men  at  the  election ;  and,  by  the  same 
token,  the  shillalah  he  had  went  whirring  through  the  air  like  a  shuttlecock ; 
now  cracking  one  skull,  now  another — now  lighting  here,  now  there — spanking 
about  with  rale  glory ;  from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  it  neither  gave,  nor  had, 
rest  or  pace.  Well,  there  niver  was  such  an  election  seen  before  or  since ;  such 
tearing  and  murdering;  Jack's  boys  killing  'Squire  Bromby's  boys,  and  'Squire 
Bromby's  boys  skivering  '  the  Jackeens'  (as  we  called  them)  like  curlews.  Well, 
that  wasn't  all;  but  one  night  (it  was  either  the  second  or  third  day  of  the 
election)  the  ould  'Squire  calls  my  father  o'  one  side.  'Mister  Mac  Manus,' 
says  he.  '  Don't  Mister  me,'  says  my  father,  '  if  you  plaze,  becase  mister  is  no 
part  o'  my  name,  yer  honour ;  I  'm  plain  James  Mac  Manus ;'  and  my  father  (he 
was  very  proud)  stood  stiff  as  an  oak  of  the  forest.  •  Well,  then,'  says  the 


188  MARY  MACGOHARTY'S  PETITION. 

'Squire,  fox-like, '  honest  James  Mac  Manus,  my  good  friend,  ye  've  stood  firm 
to  me  for  the  honour  of  ould  Ireland — a  good  friend,  indeed,  have  ye  been  to 
me ;  and  it 's  I  won't  forget  it ;  but  clap  yer  eye,  James,  my  boy,  upon  any  situa- 
tion in  the  three  kingdoms,  spake  but  the  word,  and  't  is  yours.'  '  Thanks  to 
yer  honour — many  thanks  to  yer  honour.'  My  father  was  a  well-spoken  man, 
but,  innocent-like  (he  was  no  ways  'cute),  took  it  all  for  gospil.  Well,  my  jewel, 
the  next  day  they  fell  to  it  again,  and  my  father  in  the  thick  of  it,  to  be  sure, 
like  a  great  giount,  tattering  all  before  him,  stronger  nor  ever ;  and  more  be- 
tokens, Jack  Johnson  (it 's  only  justice  to  tell  the  truth)  had  powers  o'  money, 
and  made  no  bones  o'  the  boys  atin'  and  drinkin'  at  his  expinse ;  he  was  a  fine 
portly  man,  with  a  handsome  rich  nose,  and  deeshy-dawshy  eyes,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  rat's,  squinkin'  and  blinkin'  under  the  dickon's  own  bushy,  black 
winkers — och,  so  thundery !  And,  as  the  rale  ancient  'Squire's  tongue  wasn't 
hung  asy,  and  the  other's  went  upon  wires — why,  he  had  the  advantage  there, 
too : — and  a  bitter  ruction  it  was ;  all  the  boys,  more  or  less,  had  smashed  heads, 
and  they  tied  them  up  with  garters,  or  stockings,  or  sugans,  or  anything  the 

owners  came  across,  to  keep  the  bones  together.      Why  1 but  the  spirit  and 

the  shillalahs  held  out  bravely !  And  the  last  day  came — as  it  will  upon  the 
best  of  us  some  time  or  other;  and,  after  all,  'Squire  Bromby  carried  it,  through 
thick  and  thin. 

"  Well,  I  '11  say  that  for  Jack  Johnson — though  only  a  brewer,  he  bore  up 
like  a  king — not  a  taste  out  o'  temper  all  the  time,  only  as  gay  as  a  lark,  caper- 
ing about  like  a  good  one.  Bromby-park  was  a  good  ten  mile  from  the  town, 
and  nothing  would  do  my  father  (for  he  was  perfect  mad  with  the  joy),  but  he 
put  up  the  boys  to  draw  the  new  member  thim  ten  miles,  like  a  pack  of  horses 
(more  like  asses  as  my  mother  said),  and  no  bad  load  either ;  a  heavy  lump  of 
a  man,  good  and  bad  blood — though,  to  tell  God's  truth,  there  was  more  of 
that  last.  Well,  away  they  went,  huzzaing  and  shouting,  and  got  him  to  the 
house  in  less  than  no  time ;  when,  fair  and  asy,  out  he  steps,  makes  a  bow, 
and  an  up-and-down  taste  of  a  speech,  first  swaying  on  one  leg,  then  on  the 
other,  like  a  bothered  goose;  and  turns  into  the  house,  without  as  much  as 
offering  even  a  drop  of  smalkum  to  a  mother's  son  of  the  whole  of  thim.  Well, 
after  this,  all  the  country  called  shame  on  him — the  lame  negre !  and  what  made 
it  worse,  Jack  Johnson  gave  his  boys,  even  after,  plinty  of  entertainment,  and 
said  that,  if  he  did  lose  the  election,  those  who  voted  for  him  could  not  help  it, 
and,  consequently  should  not  suffer  for  it.  After  it  was  all  passed,  and  the  people 
came  to  their  senses  again,  father  thought  it  was  time  to  put  him  in  mind  of  his 
word  (mother  tould  him  how  it  would  be),  and  so  he  set  off,  making  a  dacent 
appearance,  to  put  the  'Squire  in  mind  of  his  promise.  What  d'ye  think  he 
said,  and  he  o'  horseback,  in  his  scarlet  jock,  as  grand  as  a  Turkey-man  ? — '  Oh, 
yer  name  is  James  Mac  Manus.  Well,  James,  how  is  the  woman  that  owns  you, 
and  the  children — all  well,  ay  !  Place,  indeed — hard  things  to  get — wish  I  'd  a 
good  one  myself.  Good  morning,  James — good  morning:'  and  off  he  rode. 
Father  was  so  stomached,  that  he  would  never  go  near  him  again:  'For,'  says 


MARY  MACGOHARTY'S  PETITION.  189 

he, '  though  he 's  a  ^nimber  of  parliament,  he 's  no  gentleman  that  doesn't  value 
his  word ;  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  he  came  to  be  such  a  cankered  thing 
(unless  he  was  changed  at  nurse),  for  the  breed  of  the  family  was  always  the  top 
of  the  gentry.'  Well,  honey,  dear,  may-be  I  'm  tiring  ye  too  much  intirely,  but 
never  heed,  I  'm  a'most  done ;  ye  see,  Lord  help  us  !  my  father 's  dead,  and  the 
ould  'Squire 's  dead.  I  'm  in  a  strange  country,  and  even  my  boy  has  no  love 
for  the  sod,  seeing  he  wasn't  born  on  it,  nor  never  saw  the  green,  green  grass, 
or  the  clear  water,  or  heard  the  little  birds  sing  among  the  beautiful  woods, 
bright  and  blooming  with  the  hawthorn,  and  the  brier,  and  the  wild  crab-tree ; 
it  wasn't  so  with  my  Annie,  my  daughter,  my  only  girl,  who  was  born  there 
before  my  husband  took  to  soldiering  ;  and  she  was  so  like  him — his  very  moral  ; 
but  she 's  gone — buried  near  Dunleary,  they  tell  me — and  I  shall  never  see  her 
soft  blue  eye  upon  me,  nor  hear  her  voice,  nor — but  I  ax  yer  pardon,  madam — 
I  ought  not  to  be  troubling  ye  after  such  a  fashion. 

"  They  were  pleasant  woods  that  I  sported  among  in  my  innocent  morning ; 
and  ye  'd  hardly  think,  to  look  now  upon  my  withered  skin,  and  my  dim  eye, 
and  my  grey  hair,  that  I  was  once  likely,  and  had  the  pick  of  the  boys  for  a 
husband;  but  they're  both  gone  from  me,  and  the  English  daughter-in-law 
looks  could  enough  upon  the  ould  Irish  mother-in-law !  But,  you  see,  the  young 
'Squire  's  got  a  brave  name,  and  is  over  here  with  the  commoners — and,  I  am 
tould,  a  noble-spirited,  true  gentleman ;  so  I  was  just  thinking,  as  ye  're  handy 
with  the  pen,  may-be  ye  'd  write  him  (for  me)  a  taste  of  a  letter,  just  to  put  him 
in  mind,  ye  know,  that  my  father  lived  upon  his  father's  land,  and  telling  him 
how  poor  I  am — (an'  sure  that 's  true  for  me  !  for,  bad  luck  to  the  tack,  I  have 
but  what  I  stand  upright  in) ;  sure  I  made  this  petticoat  (and  it's  a  tidy  one  too) 
out  of  the  grey  cloak  I  got  last  winter  (winter 's  a  hard  time  on  the  poor)  was 
two  years,  to  keep  me  dacent,  and  my  poor  bones  from  freezing,  and  never  dis- 
graced my  country,  by  being  behoulden  to  man  or  mortal — only,  why  the  poor 
has  a  nataral  claim  upon  estated  gintlemin,  ye  know ;  and  just  ax  him  civilly  to 
give  me  two  or  three  pounds  (he  '11  never  miss  it,  my  darlin  lady,  never),  to  send 
me  home,  where  there 's  ould  people  still  I  'd  be  glad  to  see,  more  partiklar  my 
bothered  sister,  who  lives  nigh  were  my  poor  girl  lies,  jist  by  Dublin.  I  've  had 
two  warnings  for  death  (they  always  followed  my  family),  and  I  know 
I  can't  last  long;  only  ye 're  sinsible,  ma'am,  nixt  to  dying  in  pace  wid 
God  and  man,  there 's  nothing  like  laving  one's  bones  among  one's  own ;  thin, 
ye  know,  it 's  pleasant  not  to  be  among  strangers  at  the  resurrection  ;  so  I  was 
thinking " 

"  In  one  word,  Mary,  you  want  me  to  write  a  petition  for  you  to  'Squire 
Bromby,  as  you  call  him  ?" 

"  Exactly — och,  you  Ve  hit  it  now ! — ye  were  always  mighty  quick  that  a 
way — may  God  bless  ye  ! — but  mind,  lady  dear,  not  a  word  of  the  past,  ye  know  ; 
it  would  be  bad  manners  to  be  putting  the  dacent,  noble  young  gentleman  in 
mind  of  his  ould  foolish  father's  quare  capers." 

"  Then,  Mary,  you  need  not  have  told  me  of  them." 


190  MART  MACGOHARTT'S  PETITION. 

"  Well,  now,  that  bates  all ;  why,  how  could  ye  get  the  understanding  of  the 
thing,  if  I  did  not  tell  ye  1 — sure  you  must  know  the  rights  of  the  thing,  ony  way, 
as  the  ould  song  says — 

'  I  do  not  care  for  speculation — 
But  tell  to  me  the  truth  at  onct'  " 

"  Well,  I  dare  say,  Mary,  you  were  quite  right ;  but  now,  as  you  have  given 
me  understanding,  allow  me  to  commit  your  ideas  to  paper." 

Poor  Mary !  I  saw  her  a  few  days  after  my  scribbling,  at  her  request,  the 
petition  she  was  so  anxious  about  She  was  as  neat  as  a  bride.  New  shawl, 
new  bonnet,  new  petticoat,  even  a  new  corking-pin  in  the  gown-tail ;  for,  as  the 
dress  was  of  "  stubborn  stuff,"  it  needed  a  strong  restraint  to  keep  the  corners  in 
proper  order.  She  was  very  happy,  and  very  grateful  to  "  'Squire  Bromby"  and 
me ;  and,  as  she  seemed  only  disposed  to  talk  of  "  Dublin  Bay  herrings," — 
"  Kerry  cows," — "  travelling  expinsesv*  (which  she  had  fractionally  counted  up) 
— "  turf,"  — "  pratees," — and  "  Ould  Ireland,"  I  soon  made  my  adieus ;  faithfully 
promising,  if  I  visited  Erin  in  the  ensuing  season,  not  to  forget  paying  my  com- 
pliments to  her  in  her  sister's  cabin ;  where,  she  assured  me,  "  their  very  hearts' 
blood  should  be  shed  to  do  me  and  mine  sarvice !" 

I  was  enabled  to  keep  my  word. 

********* 

Oh,  but  the  suburbs  of  Dublin  are  miserable! — miserable! — so  miserable 
that  were  I  to  attempt  to  describe  them,  your  kind  hearts  would  sicken ;  you 
would  close  the  page,  and  not  accompany  me  on  my  peregrination  to  the  turn 
which  opens  direct  on  the  Dunleary  road.  In  the  distance,  the  expanded  Bay 
of  Dublin,  glittering  like  molten  silver — innumerable  vessels  sleeping,  as  iUwere, 
upon  its  glorious  waters,  all  glowing  in  the  rich  brightness  of  the  morning  sun, 
formed  a  background  worthy  Turner's  own  gorgeous  pencil.  Amongst  the 
groups  of  ragged,  but  cheerful,  peasants,  I  soon  found  a  guide  to  conduct  me  to 
Mary's  dwelling,  and  gazed  upon  her  little  cottage,  hardly  worthy  the  name ;  but, 
nevertheless,  so  sweetly  situated,  that  its  extreme  poverty  was  atoned  for  by  its 
picturesque  appearance.  It  was  built,  literally,  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  for  part  of 
the  eminence  formed  the  back  wall  of  the  dwelling;  the  roof  was  covered  over 
•with  lichens  and  moss,  that  mingled  with  the  long  grass,  blossoming  brambles, 
and  feathery  ragweed,  of  the  overhanging  common.  As  the  hill  ascended,  it 
was  tufted  with  richly-foliaged  trees ;  and,  below  the  cabin,  a  clear  sparkling 
stream  trickled  and  murmured  quietly  along  its  channel,  except  where  some 
firm-set  stone  or  saucy  brier  intercepted  its  way ;  and  then  it  grumbled  outright, 
and  sent  forth  a  tiny  foam,  expressive  of  its  anger  !  The  pig  had  its  own  proper 
dwelling,  hollowed  out  of  the  hill,  and,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  there  he  was 
compelled  to  stay,  by  an  antiquated  chair-back,  that  was  placed  across  the 
entrance ;  and  through  its  openings  he  could  only  thrust  his  nose,  which,  from 
its  extreme  length,  made  me  suspect  he  was  an  uncivilized  Connaught  pig.  A 
few  fowl  of  the  noble  Dorking  breed,  with  magnificent  toppings,  were  wandering 


191 

about  the  meadows,  and  a  noisy  hen  was  storming,  with  might  and  main,  at  her 
duckling  progeny,  who,  heedless  of  her  eloquence,  paddled  in  and  out  of  the 
streamlet,  in  perfect  safety :  it  was  a  calm,  and,  after  all,  a  pleasing  picture. 
The  Irish,  when  suffering  the  greatest  privations,  never  lose  their  elastic  spirits, 
and,  even  from  that  lowly  hut,  came  the  merry  notes  of  "  Planxty  Kelly," 
although  sung  by  a  feeble  voice.  I  wanted  to  enter  unperceived,  but  a  busy  cur- 
dog  yelped  so  loudly,  that  an  aged  woman  came  courtesying  to  the  door — not 
Mary.  I  thought  I  had  mistaken  the  cottage,  and  was  just  going  to  inquire, 
when  I  perceived  a  female  figure  in  the  act  of  dusting  the  turf  ashes  off  the 
hearth  with  her  apron :  her  back  was  to  me ;  but  there  was  no  mistaking  the 
corking-pin — there  it  was  in  the  self- same  spot  of  the  pinned-up  gown  tail ! 

How  delighted  she  was  to  see  me  ! — "  How  ashamed  that  she  had  nothing  to 
offer  me ! — her  sister's  grand -daughter  was  jist  gone  to  market  with  a  few  eggs 
— but,  sure,  Kate  Kearney  was  on  the  nest,  at  the  far  corner,  and  she  'd  soon  lay, 
and  thin  it  would  be  worth  atin' ! — she  was  a  beautiful  hen !  Or  she  wouldn't  be  a 
minute  whipping  the  head  off  one  of  thim  long-legged  pullets,  the  giddy  craturs  ! 
— small  use  it  was  to  them ! — and  grill  it  like  fun  in  the  ashes !  Or  she  would 
catch  the  goat  for  some  milk — sure  they  had  grass  for  a  goat ;  Nanny  gave  such 
nice  milk — only,  bad  cess  to  the  cat !  there  was  no  keeping  a  drop  in  the  house 
for  her ;  they  had  nothing  to  kiver  it,  and  she  took  the  pig's  share  and  her 
own ;  they  wanted  to  fat  him  up  to  pay  the  rint,  which  he  did  regular,  except 
last  year,  when  he  (the  one  that 's  dead)  got  the  measles,  and  that  was  a  sad  loss 
to  them." 

The  cabin  was  very  poorly  furnished  ;  for  the  pig,  the  poultry,  eggs,  and 
even  the  little  spinning  and  knitting  the  two  old  women  could  do,  were  insuffi- 
cient to  bestow  upon  them  much  comfort;  and,  besides  that,  they  had  an 
orphan  relative,  who  had  just  sufficient  intellect  to  sell  the  eggs,  and,  with  true 
Irish  feeling,  they  shared  with  her  whatever  they  possessed.  Then  came  the 
inquiries  as  to  the  "  ould  mistress  and  the  young  master,"  and  every  living  thing 
she  could  remember  as  pertaining  to  our  household.  When  I  bade  them  good 
day,  Mary  hoped  I  'd  let  her  show  me  the  short  cut ;  "  a  dale  pleasanter,  although, 
may-be,  a  few  steps  longer"  As  we  wended  down  a  narrow  glen,  carpeted  with 
the  short,  thick,  downy  grass,  that  sheep  so  much  delight  to  browse  upon,  I  asked 
Mary  if  she  was  happy  I 

"Happy! — why,  middling,  God  be  thanked!  middling  so:  an  ould  body, 
like  me,  has  none,  nor  ought  to  think  o'  none,  o'  that  quick  joy  that  sets  the 
heart  dancing,  and  the  blood  mounting  and  tearing  through  the  veins  like  mad. 
But  the  ould  have  the  quiet  and  the  content ;  the  mist  moves  from  their  eyes ; 
and  they  see  everything  past,  and  many  things  to  come,  as  they  are ;  they  know 
that  the  heart's  fresh  hope  will  bud,  and  may-be  bloom,  but  certainly  fade  ;  good 
luck,  if  it  doesn't  fade,  or  be  cut  off  afore  it  bloom.  Sure  I  'm  joyous  to  see  the 
young  things  around  me  dancing  like  the  merry  waters,  for  I  know  there  '11  be 
time  enough  for  the  salt,  salt  tears,  with  the  best  of  'em,  whether  they  last  long 
or  short ;  and  all  I  can  do,  I  do — pray  that  the  grate  God  will  keep  'em  from 


192  MARY  MACGOHARTY'S  PETITION. 

sin,  and  then  they  never  can  taste  the  worst  o'  sorrow ;  for  bitter  is  the  bed,  and 
hard,  o'  the  black  sinner ;  which,  thank  God,  no  one  belonging  to  me  ever  was ; 
and  the  priest  (God  rest  his  soul !)  often  said  that,  whin  we  went  to  make  a  clean 
breast  it 's  little  trouble  he  had  with  us :  and  the  hardest  pilgrimage  my  father 
ever  made,  was  twice  to  the  Lady's  Island,  and  that  wasn't  for  much,  in  so  long 
a  life.  When  I  came  over,  I  thought  it  only  fitting  to  have  a  few  masses  said 
for  the  rest  of  my  poor  girl's  soul ! — but  the  priest  (och,  he 's  the  good  man !) 
tould  me  half  as  much  would  do  as  was  customary — on  account  she  was  such  a 
God-serving  girl ; — never  missed  a  confession  in  her  life.  I  '11  show  ye  where 
she  lays  ;  and  I  've  taken  an  obligation  on  myself  never  to  pass  the  grave  with- 
out one  avy.  Whin  we  turn  this  knock,  we  '11  come  right  upon  the  poor  ould 
churchyard,  all  so  quiet  and  lonesome  by  itself! — that's  not  the  way  it  '11  be  at 
the  last  day !  God  help  me !" 

When  we  "  fumed  the  knock" — I  was  charmed  by  the  old  churchyard ;  it 
changed  completely  the  style  of  the  landscape — as  it  stood  at  the  commence- 
ment of  a  long  marsh — a  little  elevated  above  its  level;  and  the  prospect  on 
that  side  our  path  was  terminated  by  hills  above  hills — some  slightly  wooded — 
others  resting,  as  it  were,  against  the  clear  blue  sky,  huge  masses  of  many-tinted 
rock.  The  building  must  have  been  one  of  very  ancient  structure;  what 
remained  was  overgrown  by  ivy,  and  here  and  there  a  solitary  tree  shadowed 
the  mouldering  walls  and  half-fallen  arches ;  there  were  few  tomb-stones — nought 
but  "  green  grass  mounds,"  headed  by  small  wooden  crosses — some  without 
any  inscription— others  simply  marked  thus — 

t 
IHS 

One  ponderous  relic  of  ancient  days,  however,  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  church- 
yard, at  which  a  young  man  and  woman  were  kneeling. 

When  Mary  had  repeated  her  customary  prayer,  she  rejoined  me,  observing 
"  she  would  take  longer  next  time,  only  she  could  not  bear  to  keep  me  waiting 
in  sich  a  dismal  place." 

"  Mary,"  I  inquired,  "  can  I  take  any  message  back  to  your  son,  in  case  his 
regiment  should  have  returned  to  London  ?" 

"  Oh !  God  bless  ye  for  that  thought !  sure  can  ye — and  my  heart  was  burstin* 
to  ax  ye,  only  I  thought,  may-be,  ye  'd  think  bad  of  my  making  so  bould.  Ye 
see,  ma'am,  dear,  I  thought  my  sister  was  better  to  do  in  the  world ;  or  I  'd 
hardly  ha'  troubled  her,  and  the  times  so  bad ;  but  my  heart  bates  to  see  the 
boy — and  I  don't  want  him  here,  because  I  know  the  English  girl  would  be 
skitting  at  the  poor  cabin ;  and,  above  all  things,  ye  know,  agra,  I  niver  could 
bear  a  slur  cast  upon  the  country ;  I  don't  say  but  (though  I  'd  be  long  sorry  to 
let  them  English  hear  me)  there 's  a  dale  more  comfort,  and  eatin',  and  such  as 
that,  among  'em — and  they  're  study,  honest,  surly  sort  o'  people — no  variety  in 
'em  at  all — all  the  one  way,  all  asy  going — without  much  spirit,  but  a  dale  o' 
comfort.  Now  seeing  I  got  a  fresh  lease  oj  my  life  by  breathing  such  air  as  this 
— though  I  'm  old — yet  I  find  I  can't  settle  myself  parfect  for  death  without  once 


193 

more  seeing  the  boy — and  seeing  London ;  and  so  will  ye  tell  him— God  bless 
ye ! — that,  after  this  winter,  I  will  have  enough  to  carry  me  over,  an'  back,  may- 
be, on  account,  ye  know,  of  laving  my  bones  in  the  grey  churchyard — near  my 
poor  girl ;  but,  if  I  shouldn't  have  enough,  ma'am,  dear,  sure  you  '11  be  to  the 
fore,  and  it 's  little  ye  'd  think  o'  writing  me  another  petition  /—I  '11  engage  ye  're 
as  nimble  at  the  pen  as  ever.  And  if  ye  see  the  boy's  wife,  and  she  axes  any 
questions,  jist  put  the  best  face  upon  it,  ma'am,  honey,  for  the  honour  of  ould 
Ireland !  So  my  blessing  be  about  ye  wherever  ye  go ;  and  the  blessing  of  all 
the  saints,  and  St.  Patrick's  at  the  head  of  thim  !  Sure,  it 's  a  happy  sight  to  see 
his  beautiful  head  (the  steeple  I  mean)  watching  above  that  sweet,  illigint  city — 
that  the  devil  has  no  power  over — the  joy  of  my  heart  ye  are,  Dublin  agra  I'1 

I  bade  her  adieu,  and  was  proceeding  on  my  way ;  Mary  took  my  hand, 
pressed  it  affectionately  to  her  heart. and  lips,  and  the  tears  showered  on  it;  she 
could  not  speak  her  farewell  blessing,  but  fixed  her  large  eyes  on  me  as  I  departed, 
with  more  expression  of  feeling  than  I  had  ever  before  witnessed  !  Poor  Mary  ! 
— winters  and  summers  have  passed,  but  I  have  seen  her  no  more ! — She  needs 
no  more  petitions. 


FATHER  MIKE. 


AY  Heaven  defend  us! — did  you  ever  hear  sich  a 
storm? — and  the  snow's  as  good  as  knee-deep  this 
blessed  minit,  in  the  yard ;  it 's  hard  to  say  whether 
sleet,  snow,  or  hail,  is  the  bittherest,  for  they  are  all 
drifting  together,  and  always  in  a  body's  face.  Martin, 
is  there  no  sign  of  his  reverence  yet?" 

Martin,  who  had  been  industriously  stuffing  some 
straw  into  his  huge  brogue,  and  Molly  M'Clathery, 
who  had  made  the  inquiry,  rose  at  the  same  moment, 
opened  the  window-shutter,  looked  forth  upon  the  night, 
and  listened,  in  hopes  to  hear  the  wonted  tokens  of  the 
priest's  return. 

In  the  kitchen  of  old  Father  Mike,  the  usual  "  family 
circle"  had  assembled,  of  which  Molly  and  Martin 
formed  a  principal  part.  The  house  stood  on  a  bleak 
hill-side,  exposed  to  the  full  rush  of  the  sea  blast,  with- 

(194) 


FATHER    MIKE.  195 

out  a  tree  to  shelter  either  dwelling,  barn,  or  hayrick.  On  such  a  night,  its 
exterior  presented  anything  but  a  comfortable  appearance ;  it  was  an  ill-built, 
slated  house,  flanked  by  thatched  offices,  which  formed  a  sort  of  triangle,  at  the 
smallest  point  of  which  a  wide  gate  stood,  or  rather  hung,  almost  always  open ; 
to  say  the  truth,  it  was  only  supported  by  one  hinge,  the  other  never  having 
been  repaired  since  the  county  member's  carriage  frightened  it  to  pieces,  when 
he  visited  the  worthy  priest,  a  month  or  two  before  the  last  general  elec- 
tion; although  Father  Mike  had,  a  thousand  times,  directed  Martin  to  get 
it  mended,  and  Martin  had  as  often  replied,  "  Yes,  plase  yer  reverence,  /'//  see 
about  it:' 

At  the  back  of -the  house  nearly  an  acre  of  land  was  enclosed,  as  "  a  garden ;" 
but  the  good  priest  cared  little  for  vegetables,  and  less  for  flowers ;  and  it  was, 
of  course,  overrun  with  luxuriant  weeds,  insolently  triumphant,  in  the  summer 
time,  over  the  fair  but  dwindling  rose,  or  timid  lily,  that  still  existed,  but  looked 
as  if  they  pined  and  mourned  at  the  waste  around  them.  The  inside  of  the 
dwelling  wras  rambling  and  inconvenient ;  it  had  a  dark  entrance-hall,  or  passage, 
a  kitchen,  a  parlour,  a  cellar,  on  the  ground  floor ;  -while  a  sort  of  ladder  stair- 
case led  to  the  upper  chambers.  The  kitchen  was  the  general  family  room,  the 
parlour  being  reserved  for  company,  and  kept  in  tolerable  order  by  the  priest's 
niece,  a  dark-eyed  little  lass  of  sixteen. 

Martin  and  Molly  had  resumed  their  seats  on  a  black  oak  settle,  that  occu- 
pied one  side  of  the  large  open  chimney:  Molly,  of  spindle-like  stiffness,  her 
lean  figure  and  scraggy  neck  supporting  a  face  "  broad  as  a  Munster  potato," 
while  her  wide  mouth,  and  long,  sharp  teeth,  betokened  her  passion  for  talking 
and  eating:  Martin,  whose  shaggy  elf-locks  clustered  thickly  over  a  well- 
formed  forehead,  and  deep-set  but  bright  grey  eyes,  resembled,  very  much 
resembled,  a  cluricawn — that  particularly  civil,  wily,  sharp-sighted  Irish  fairy ; 
Martin  Finchley  was  almost  as  little,  quite  as  knowing,  quite  as  clever,  and  by 
trade  a  brogue  maker,  to  which  fraternity  all  cluricawns  belong ;  yet  the  straw 
peeped  forth  from  his  brogues  !  Ah !  but  Martin  was  a  genius— knew  more  of 
everybody  and  everything  than  any  man  in  the  county,  sung  a  good  song,  told  a 
good  story,  brought  home  the  cows,  fed  the  pigs,  minded  the  horse,  and  performed 
many,  domestic  offices  in  the  priest's  establishment,  yet  found  time  to  learn  all 
the  news,  and  nurse  half  the  children  in  the  parish.  Molly  and  he  had  lived 
fifteen  years  with  Father  Mike,  and  had  never  passed  a  day,  during  that  period, 
without  quarrelling,  to  the  great  amusement  of  Dora  Hay,  the  priest's  little 
niece,  who  was  now  kneeling  at  the  other  side  of  the  fire,  her  wheel  laid  aside, 
while  she  carefully  administered  some  warm  milk  to  a  young  lamb  that  had 
suffered  much  from  the  heavy  snow.  Two  large  dogs,  a  cat,  and  a  half-grown 
kitten,  shared  also  the  wide  hearthstone,  and  enjoyed  the  bright,  cheerful  light 
of  a  turf  and  wood  fire.  On  an  old-fashioned  table,  partially  covered  with  a 
half-bleached  cloth,  was  spread  the  priest's  supper;  a  large  round  of  salted 
beef,  a  silver  pint  mug,  with  an  inscription  somewhat  worn  by  time,  an 
unbroken  cake  of  griddle  bread,  with  a  "  pat"  of  fresh  butter  on  a  wooden 


196  FATHER   MIKE. 

platter,  and  two  old  bottles,  containing  something  much  stronger  than  water. 
An  antique  arm-chair,  with  an  embroidered  but  much  soiled  cushion,  was 
placed  opposite  the  massive  silver  handled  knife  and  fork; — all  awaiting  his 
reverence's  coming.  From  the  rafters  of  this  wild-looking  apartment  hung 
various  portions  of  dried  meat,  fish,  and  pigs'  heads,  the  latter  looking  ghastly 
enough  in  the  flickering  light  The  dresser,  which,  as  usual  in  Irish  kitchens, 
extended  the  whole  length  of  the  room,  made  a  display  of  rich  china,  yellow 
delf,  wooden  noggins,  dim  brass,  and  old,  but  chased-silver  candlesticks.  A  long 
deal  "  losset,"  filled  to  overflowing  with  meal  and  flour,  was  (if  I  may  use  the 
expression)  united  to  the  wall  by  a  heap  of  potatoes,  on  which  a  boy,  or  "  runner,'' 
was  sleeping  as  soundly  as  if  he  had  been  pillowed  on  down ;  a  large  herring 
barrel,  a  keg  of  whiskey  on  a  stand,  to  "  be  handy  like,"  and  a  firkin  of  butter, 
occupied  the  spaces  along  the  wall  of  the  apartment 

Still  the  storm  continued.  The  fire  was  again  heaped,  and  yet  the  master 
was  absent. 

"  Miss  Dora,  my  darlint,"  said  Molly  M'Clathery,  after  a  very  long  pause, 
"  go  to  bed,  agra,  yer  eyes  arc  heavy  for  sleep,  and  no  wonder,  for  it 's  a'most 
elivin  by  the  ould  clock.  Martin,  I  thought  ye  were  to  get  the  clock  settled, 
but  it  '11  be  like  the  gate  widout  the  hinge,  and  the  windy  widout  the  glass,  and 
the  mare's  leg;  to  say  nothing  of  the  wine  last  summer,  that  worked  itself  to 
vinegar,  for  want  of  a  bung.  His  reverence  is  a  dale  too  quiet  for  all  of  ye. 
Whin  Jacky  the  tinker  was  married — (sure  may-be,  I  don't  remember  it !) — he 
comes  here,  and  talks  his  reverence  over  not  to  ax  the  money  for  the  wedding 
until  the  nixt  time  he  was  wanting.  Well,  at  the  first  christening  my  chap  had 
the  same  story,  and  so  on,  putting  his  reverence  oflf,  from  that  to  the  next,  and 
the  next,  and  the  next,  and  so  on,  till  the  seventh  brat  came.  Well,  that  was  all 
well,  as  a  body  may  say ;  and  at  last  his  reverence,  knowing  he  was  getting 
powers  of  money,  jist  mintioned  the  ould  score  : — five  shillings  for  the  wedding, 
and  then  six  christenings  at  a  thirteen  and  a  tester  each.  And,  what  does  the 
spalpeen  ? — as  keen  as  the  north  wind  :  '  Oh,  very  well,'  says  he,  '  as  yer  rever- 
ence plazes,  only  there 's  Friar  Kannet  christens  for  half-price,  and  the  protestant 
minister  for  nothing,  and  one 's  as  good  as  another.'  And,  to  be  sure,  to  save  the 
soul  of  the  grawl,  his  reverence  gives  up  intirely,  and  makes  the  thing  a  holy 
Catholic,  out  and  out  at  once,  for  nothing." 

"  Will  ye  hould  yer  clack,  Molly  !  What  do  I  care  about  Jacky  the  tinker  1 
— and  as  to  the  wine,  it  was  as  much  your  fault,  and  more,  than  mine.  And  for 
the  mare's  leg,  how  the  plague  could  I  hinder  her  breaking  it  if  she  liked,  and  I 
three  mile  off  at  the  same  time  ?  But  I  won't  be  spinding  my  breath  on  ye : 
only — bad  luck  to  all  famales !" 

"  Thank  you,  Martin,"  said  Miss  Dora,  who  had  been  really  half  asleep,  her 
small  foot  resting  on  the  step  of  the  wheel,  and  the  thread  hanging  on  her  finger, 
while  her  head  fell  carelessly  on  her  delicate  shoulder. 

11 1  humbly  ax  yer  pardon,  Miss  Dory ;  I  didn't  mane  you  to  hear  that ;  it  was 


FATHER    MIKE.  197 

only  the  like  o'  she  I  meant,  that  can  never  let  well  enough  alone,  but 's  ever- 
more naggin',  naggin',  naggin',  at  a  body,  like  a  swaddling  pracher." 

"Martin,  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is — give  us  none  o'  yer  impudence! — for 
I  haven't  been  Father  Mike's  housekeeper,  or  Miss  Dora's  nurse,  for  fifteen 
years,  to  stand  talk  from  a  man,  much  less  from  you,  ye  dawshy  clod- 
hopper !" 

"  Stop,  Molly !"  interrupted  Dora ;  "  stop ;  you  are  sometimes  a  little  cross ; 
and  it  is  too  late  to  quarrel  to-night.  I  wish  you  would  go  to  bed ;  and  I  will 
wait  up  for  my  uncle." 

"  Och,  no,  my  dear — and  lave  you  by  yerself  in  this  big  kitchen !  Save  us ! 
— d  'ye  hear  how  that  boy  is  snoring  1  Dick !  Dick ! — wake  up,  I  say ;  what 
does  his  reverence  give  ye  mate,  drink,  and  clothing  for? — is  it  to  lie  there 
snoring,  as  comfortable,  on  thim  illegant  pratees,  as  the  king  on  his  throne,  when 
yer  master,  a  holy  man  like  him,  is  out  in  the  could  snow  ?' 

"  Sure,  ye  may  let  the  boy  alone,  he 's  doin'  no  harm ;  he 's  not  wanted  till 
his  reverence  comes  home,  and  then  I  '11  wake  him,  to  hould  the  light  for  the 
horse  to  the  stable." 

"  He  shall  wake  now ;  one  idle  body 's  enough  in  the  house,  Martin  Finchely ;" 
and  in  her  own  way  she  proceeded  to  effect  her  purpose.  Dick  roared  lustily  at 
the  blow  which  reached  him,  while  Martin  very  quietly  observed,  "  Now  that 
she 's  upturned  everything,  may-be  she  '11  be  asy  herself."  And  so  she  was,  for, 
kneeling  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  she  commenced  gabbling  over  her  prayers, 
"  to  keep  her  employed,"  as  she  said,  till  his  reverence  came  in.  Dora,  to  beguile 
the  time,  entered  into  conversation  with  Martin. 

"  Martin,  was  there  any  news  stirring  this  morning  ?" 

.  "Nothing  worth  much,  Miss;  it's  very  dead  for  news  now,  on  account 
that  Mary-the-Mant 's  gone  to  Waxford,  and  Mrs.  Murphy  (oh,  what  a 
fine-spoken  woman  that  is !)  has  jist  got  two  young  ones  that  keeps  her 
widin ; — and  the  poor  widdy  Mooney  is  out  o'  sorts.  I  wish  ye  'd  jist  say  a 
kind  word  for  her,  the  cratur,  to  his  reverence,  Miss,  dear — may-be,  the  morrow, 
whin  he  's  takin'  his  punch  afther  dinner ;— sure  he  spoke  to  her  from  the  altar 
last  Sunday,  on  account  of  her  havin'  tasted  something  besides  new  milk 
in  the  mornin' — poor  thing !  She  has  a  wake  head,  and  a  warm  heart,  and  a 
nimble  tongue,  (not  that  she  's  by  any  manner  o'  manes  as  fine  spoken  a  woman 
as  Mrs.  Murphy — far  from  it),  but,  any  way,  she  's  almost  ashamed  to  let  the 
bames  o'  day  see  her  face ;  sure  she  can't  help  her  wake  head,  the  sowl ! — 
and  she  '11  niver  recover — barring  you  spake  the  soft  word  for  a  poor  distressed 
neighbour." 

"  Oh,  Martin,  you  know  she  is  always  tipsy." 

"  Oh,  no,  'pon  my  conscience,  Miss,  she  niver  takes  more  nor  a  noggin  afore 
breakfast,  and,  any  way,  she  can't  help  it — it 's  the  natur  o'  the  cratur.  Oh,  do 
spake  the  good  word  !" 

"  Martin,  did  La  very  get  the  saddle  back  !" 

"Och,  thin,  I  know  I  had  somethin'  to  tell  ye;  ay,  sure  enough,  it  came  of 


\ 


198  FATHER    MIKE. 

itself,  seemingly ;  sated  quiet  and  civil  at  the  door  this  mornin' ;  and  it 's  Friar 
Donovan  Jack  Lavery  may  thank  for  that;  for  Jack  complained  it  to  him,  how 
he  lost  his  beautiful  saddle  as  good  as  new,  for  his  father  bought  it  a  little  afore 
he  died,  and 'tis  not  much  above  ten  years  agone,  and  what  signifies  the  few 
times  it  was  crossed,  an'  it  a  Dublin  saddle !  So  Friar  Donovan,  like  a  good 
Christian,  didn't  wish  the  poor  man  to  be  at  the  loss  of  the  saddle,  and  so,  says 
he,  an'  he  praching  for  Father  Clancy  in  the  chapel  of  Rathangan,  says  he 
(he's  a  powerful  man),  says  he — I  know  the  boy  that  stole  that  saddle  (as  well 
he  might,  for  I  knew  him  myself),  and  what's  more,  says  he,  if  he  that  has  it 
does  not  return  it  to  honest  Jack  Lavery  afore  to-morrow  night,  he  '11  be  riding 

upon  the  same  saddle  through ;  I  ax  yer  pardon,  it's  not  fit  for  a  young 

lady  to  hear;  only  it's  the  devil's  coort  he  meant,  and  said  it  out  plump  and 
plain  in  the  face  of  the  congregation — he  '11  be  riding  through  the  very  hot  place 
afore  this  day  week,  says  he,  if  he  doesn't  return  it  immediately;  and  sure 
enough  Jack  has  got  the  saddle,  for  it  was  sated  quietly  down  at  his  own  door 
the  next  mornin'  early." 

"Well,  Martin,  I  am  glad  of  it.     Any  more  news?" 

"Oh,  nothin'  particular;  only  ye  hard,  no  doubt,  how  discontented  Father 
O'Shea  (God  be  good  to  him  !)  was,  at  being  buried  in  the  black  North,  whin 
his  own  people  had  sich  comfortable  lodging  in  their  own  place,  and  how  he  came 
to  his  brother  Mick,  the  farmer ;  and  Mick,  says  he,  how  d  'ye  think  I  can  lie 
asy  in  the  wet,  could,  damp  hole  they  put  me  in,  and  all  my  people  so  snug  in 
their  own  place  ;  take  me  up  says  he — (och,  Molly,  ye  need  not  stare,  for  it 's  as 
thrue  as  the  beads  in  yer  hand !) — take  me  up,  says  he,  and  put  me  in  warm 
herring-ground ;  for  if  ye  don't  I  '11  give  ye  no  pace,  and  ye  '11  have  no  luck — to 
lave  your  brother,  and  he  a  priest,  in  such  a  sitiation !  Stale  me  away,  says  he. 
Now,  to  be  sure,  the  brother  knew  that  it  was  far  from  right  to  take  a  priest 
from  the  berring-ground  of  his  flock,  where  he  was  placed  so  proper,  facing  his 
congregation  'ginst  the  day  of  judgment.  Nevertheless,  what  must  be  must  be 
— so  they  stole  him  off  in  the  dead  o'  the  night,  and  settled  him  comfortable  in 
the  ould  churchyard  yonder,  in  the  middle  of  his  own  people ;  it  cost  a  power  o' 
money — but  niver  mind,  he  's  asy  now." 

"  I  dare  say,"  continued  Martin,  after  a  long  pause,  "  it  was  jist  sich  a  night 
as  this  that  the  bitter  desolation  came  upon  the  ancient,  fine,  ould  town  of  Ban- 
now  ;  for,  no  doubt,  Miss  Dory,  you  that  has  such  laming  knows  that  there 's  an 
entire  town  under  thim  sand-hills.  The  sea  rushed  in  one  night,  and  all  the 
craturs  o'  sinners  asleep,  quite  innocent-like,  were  kilt  and  spilt.  And  when  the 
sea  went  back  to  its  own  place — bad  luck  to  it ! — the  storm  came,  and  the  sand 
heaped  in  mountains  over  the  dead  town ;  and,  barring  the  church,  that  was  on 
a  high  hill,  every  living  house  was  kivered  over,  only  one  chimbly,  that  used  to 
return  a  borough  member,  before  the  Union  and  Lord  Castlereagh,  and  the  likes 
o'  thim,  murdered  ould  Ireland  intirely." 

"  But  the  proof,  Martin,  the  proof!"  inquired  Dora,  laughing. 

u  Is  it  proof  ye  're  wanting,  my  darlint  Miss  ?  why,  isn't  the  town  to  the  fore, 


FATHER    MIKE.  199 

underground  ? — and  isn't  there,  in  Waxford  city,  the  books  to  prove  that  as  good 
as  six  streets,  in  the  ould  town  of  Bannow,  paid  cess,  and  tithe,  and  tolls  1 — and 
the  cockle-strand,  where  the  girleens  are  picking  cockles  ? — sure,  that's  a  proof; 
for  it 's  out  o'  that  the  sand  come.  The  gintry  talk  of  digging  it  up,  and  unkiver- 
ing  the  sunk  houses :  but  those  that  have  money  don't  care,  and  those  that  have 
not — why,  they  can't,  ye  know.  Ye  've  seen  the  curious  font  inside  the  church  ; 
the  rain  water  that  falls  in  it  is  holy  of  itself— Lord  save  us !  Father  Grashby, 
ye  know,  said  it  was  a  shame  to  lave  such  a  beautiful  cut  stone  in  an  ould  church  ; 
and  so,  without  saying  so  much  as  '  by  yer  lave'  to  priest  or  minister,  he  claps 
the  blessed  relic  in  his  own  new  chapel,  tin  miles  off,  as  quiet  as  anything. 
To  be  sure,  ye  mind,  whin  the  whole  parish  cried  shame — and  such  a  hulla-boo- 
loo  as  there  was ! — the  women  skreetching  for  the  dear  life,  and  saying  (true 
for  'em)  that  the  luck  was  gone  for  iver  and  iver  from  us :  but  the  very  nixt 
night — (now,  ma'am,  don't  be  always  skitting  that  way :  I  ax  yer  pardon,  but 
it 's  not  what  I  'd  expect  from  the  likes  o'  you,  to  trate  holy  things  so ;  and  what 
I  'm  telling  is  as  true  as  gospel — I'd  take  my  bible  oath  of  it!) — the  very  nixt 
night  such  a  storm  as  you  never  heard,  nor  any  one  else ;  and  a  bur-r-r,  boo. 
ooo-b-o-o-o,  through  the  air ;  and  the  font  went  over  the  house-tops  and  the  trees, 
like  a  shot,  whirring  and  bubbling,  and  bright  as  a  star,  and  lit  all  along  through 
the  sky  by  the  dazzling  candles  of  the  good  people  before  and  behind,  shouting, 
chirming,  and  making  such  sweet  music,  through  the  whirlwind — and  fair  and 
softly,  they  niver  stopped  till  they  placed  the  font  in  its  ould  place,  and  whir  and 
away  the  charmers,  to  their  homes  in  the  blue-bells,  and  the  rose-buds,  and  the 
wather-foam — " 

"  Lord  save  us !"  ejaculated  Molly,  and  muttered  her  prayers  faster  than  ever. 
A  long  pause  ensued,  and,  half  asleep,  Dora  inquired  if  there  had  been  a  dance 
at  the  public  that  evening  ? 

"  Sorra  a  one,"  replied  Martin,  "  whin  I  came  away.  I  just  looked  in  a  minit ; 
Phil  Waddy,  and  yer  cousin  Brian,  and  one  or  two  more,  were  there ;  and, 
by  the  same  token,  Raking  Phil  has  a  wicked  look  about  the  eyes  when  he  's 
crossed." 

"  I  never  saw  him  look  wicked,"  replied  Dora,  quickly.  "  He  always  looked 
so  kind  and  good-tempered,  and " 

A  loud  knocking  prevented  Dora's  finishing  the  sentence.  Shag  and  his  com- 
panion gave  each  one  bark,  and  then  ran  wagging  their  tails  to  the  door. 

All  were  on  their  feet  in  a  moment.  Before  Martin  could  hold  the  bridle  rein, 
Father  Mike  (for  it  was  the  long  expected  priest)  had  dismounted,  and  with 
unwonted  alacrity  entered  the  kitchen,  without  the  usual  salutation  of  "  God  save 
all  here !" 

"  Dear  uncle,"  said  Dora,  taking  his  hand  as  he  sat  down,  "  let  me  take  off 
this  coat;  what  is  the  matter? — sure  something  has  happened  ye;  speak,  my 
dear  uncle !"  and  the  affectionate  girl  unbuttoned  the  collar ;  then,  suddenly 
starting  back,  exclaimed,  "Good  God!  here  is  blood,  wet  blood,  upon  yer 
cravat !— dear,  dear  uncle,  you  are  hurt — hurt !"  and  poor  Dora,  who  did  not 


200  FATHER    MIKE. 

possess  much  mental  or  bodily  strength,  nearly  fainted  on  her  uncle's  arm.  The 
old  priest  kissed  her  forehead,  but  it  was  some  moments  before  he  could  reply. 
At  length  he  said : — 

"  It  is  nothing,  child ;  a  mere  nothing ! — the  bough  of  a  tree,  broken  by  the 
storm,  might  have  scratched  me  here  as  it  fell ;"  and  he  pointed  to  his  throat, 
where  more  collected  witnesses  would  easily  have  perceived  a  broken  bough 
could  not  have  harmed  him ;  it  satisfied,  however,  the  innocent  Dora,  and  the 
stupid  Molly :  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  priest  was  seated  at  the  table. 

"  You  don't  eat,  sir,"  said  Dora ;  "  you  have,  perhaps,  supped  at  Mr.  Herriott's, 
or  at  one  of  the  farmers'." 

"  No,  my  dear." 

"  Then  do  you  not  like  the  beef." 

"  Thank  God,  child,  it  is  very  good." 

"  Well,  let  me  make  you  some  punch,  nice  whiskey-punch ;  here  's  hot  water, 
sugar — white  sugar — all  ye  want ;  and,  ye  know,  I  'm  a  capital  hand." 

"  I  know  ye  're  as  dear  to  me,  Dory,  as  ever  born  child  was  to  father  or 
mother.  Make  what  ye  please  for  yer  old  uncle.  Molly  you  and  the  boys  may 
go  to  bed ;  I  shan't  be  long,  and  it 's  Tuesday  mornin'  by  this  time." 

"  Hadn't  Miss  betther  go  to  bed  1"  inquired  Molly ;  "  sure  I  '11  sit  up  and  do 
whatever 's  wanted  wid  all  pleasure,  as  in  duty  bound,  plase  yer  reverence." 

"  No  Molly,  do  you  go."  Molly  retired,  and,  after  a  short  pause,  Father 
Mike  spoke  :  "  Dory,  dear ! — have  ye  said  yer  prayers  to-night  ?" 

"  No,  Sir." 

"  Kneel  down,  then,  love,  at  my  knee,  as  ye  've  done,  off  and  on,  since  my 
poor  sister  died — and  that 's  more  than  fourteen  years  ago ;  ye  '11  be  seventeen 
yer  next  birthday." 

Dora  smiled,  and  knelt  as  she  was  desired. 

"  Stop ! — before  you  begin',  child,  take  an  obligation  on  yourself,  to  answer 
truly  to  .every  word  I  question,  when  ye 've  done;  there,  don't  blush  so;  my 
sister's  child,  I  know  has  nothing  to  hide  from  her  confessor  and  friend." 

Dora  prayed  in  tremulous  accents,  and,  perhaps,  she  never  looked  so  lovely 
as  at  that  moment :  her  brown  hair — long,  thick  and  somewhat  curled — hung 
over,  but  did  not  conceal,  the  expression  of  her  upturned  face ;  her  eyes  were 
half  closed,  and  the  lids  were  beautifully  fringed  with  dark  lashes ;  her  com- 
plexion, though  somewhat  embrowned,  was  delicate,  and  the  lower  part  of  her 
face,  particularly  her  quivering  lip,  expressed  feelings  as  yet  undefined,  but 
powerful:  the  priest's  arms  were  crossed  on  his  bosom;  and  when  his  eyes 
rested  on  the  child  of  his  adoption,  his  lips  moved  with  the  increased  earnestness 
of  heartfelt  prayer. 

"  Now,  Dora,  sit  down ;  not  on  that  low  seat — ye  're  always  crouching  at  my 
feet  like  a  frightened  hare ;  when  Philip  Waddy  was  here,  yesterday  morning, 
what  did  he  say  to  you  ? — keep  yer  hand  from  yer  face,  and  answer  me !" 

"  Say,  uncle  ?" 

"  Yes,  child,  say." 


FATHER   MIKE.  201 

"  Why,  he  said  that  it  was  a  very  fair  morning." 

"  Anything  else  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  he  asked  me  if  I  was  to  be  at  Mary  Gaharty's  wedding  next  week, 
and — and — if — it  was  a  very  foolish  question,  uncle — " 

"  Well,  dear,  what  was  it  ?" 

"  Why,  only — if— I  'd  like  to  be  at  my  own  wedding  ?" 

"  Well,  and  what  did  ye  say  ?" 

"  I  said — nothing,  sir." 

"  Did  he  not  ask  ye  anything  else  ?" 

"  Only  if  I  loved  my  cousin  Brian  better  than  him." 

"  And  what  did  you  reply  ?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Dora,  smiling,  "  I  said  I  loved  Brian  ten  times  better ;  and  he  got 
quite  angry." 

"  Indeed !  and  is  it  true,  Dora,  that  you  love  Brian  the  best  ?" 

The  girl  spread  her  hands  over  her  face,  and  even  her  throat  coloured  deeply, 
as  she  murmured — "  No." 

"  Dora,"  said  Father  Mike,  "  it  is  very  unlikely  that  you  will  ever  see  Philip 
Waddy  again ;  but  if  you  should — "  and  his  small  grey  eye,  kindled  by  some 
hidden  fire,  as  he  spoke,  looked  dazzlingly  bright,  as  it  sparkled  from  under  his 
dark  brows, — "  if  you  should  see  him,  as  you  value  my  last  blessing,  as  you 
value  my  last  curse,  shun  him,  fly  from  him,  look  not  on  him ;  the  thunder  of 
God  will  pursue,  and  overtake  him,  for  he  is — " 

"  Remember  /"  exclaimed  a  voice,  both  loud  and  deep. 

The  priest  started  from  his  seat ;  with  one  arm  folded  the  terrified  girl  to  his 
bosom,  and,  with  the  other,  seized  the  knife  that  lay  upon  the  table  before  him. 
Within  the  apartment,  all  was  still  as  the  grave,  except  the  large  dog,  who  sprang 
to  the  half-closed  shutter,  but  neither  growled  nor  barked.  The  priest  placed 
Dora  on  the  chair  from  which  he  had  risen,  advanced  to  the  window  with  a  firm 
step,  carefully  bolted  it,  and  then  returned  to  where  his  niece,  the  victim  of  many 
contending  feelings,  retained  a  perfect  consciousness  of  all  that  passed,  but  was 
nearly  deprived  of  reason  by  extreme  terror. 

She  was,  at  length,  roused  by  her  uncle's  affectionate  kindness,  and  retired 
to  her  chamber,  where  a  passionate  burst  of  tears  relieved  her.  Young,  inex- 
perienced, and  perfectly  ignorant  of  the  world's  ways,  Dora  Hay  might  have 
been  truly  called  the  child  of  nature ;  she  had  lost  her  mother  at  the  moment 
she  entered  into  existence,  and  her  uncle  adopted  the  friendless  infant  (her 
father  had  died  some  months  before),  and  poured  on  it  the  affections  of  a  heart 
that  yearned  for  an  object  on  whom  it  could  bestow  especial  love.  Dora  cer- 
tainly, deserved  all  he  could  give,  for  never  was  child  more  devotedly  attached 
to  parent  than  she  was  to  her  uncle ;  when  he  was  at  home,  she  followed  his 
footsteps,  listened  to  his  words,  and  treasured  up  his  instruction  with  the 
greatest  eagerness  and  attention ;  and,  when  absent,  she  thought  only  of  what 
she  could  do  to  promote  his  happiness  on  his  return.  He  was,  indeed,  her  sole 
teacher,  and,  as  he  had  received  the  advantages  of  a  more  polished  education 
26 


202  FATHER    MIKE. 

than  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  priesthood  generally,  having  resided  at  Paris  during 
the  old  regime,  his  niece  had  the  full  benefit  of  all  his  advantages; — although, 
it  must  be  confessed,  he  was  not  very  competent  to  give  lessons  in  the  usual 
female  acquirements.  He  instructed  her  in  French ;  nature  directed  her  how 
to  sing,  and  that  most  sweetly,  the  wild  airs  of  her  native  land ;  every  Irish  girl 
dances  intuitively ;  and  Martin  taught  her  all  the  legends,  and  interested  her  in 
all  the  superstitions,  of  the  country.  Thus,  the  young  maiden  might  have  been 
pronounced  accomplished,  by  more  fastidious  judges  than  Father  Mike's  flock. 
Still,  it  must  be  confessed,  Dora  had  great  faults ;  next  to  her  uncle's  opinion, 
she  thought  her  own  better  than  any  other;  and,  like  most  girls,  was  vain 
of  her  beauty.  The  farmer's  daughters  she  deemed  too  ignorant  to  be  her 
companions;  and  the  young  ladies  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  to  say 
the  truth,  were  somewhat  (I  am  sorry  for  it,  but  it  is  true,  nevertheless) 
haughty,  so  that  Dora  had  no  friend  of  her  own  sex ;  but  she  had  what,  per- 
haps, she  thought  better — two  lovers — her  distant  cousin,  Brian,  and  Raking 
Phil  Waddy.  Brian  was  a  steady,  well-principled  youth,  of  a  slight  and  rather 
genteel  appearance — gentle  withal,  except  when  influenced  by  the  destructive 
spirit  that  has  been  one  of  the  sorest  curses  on  the  land ;  then  he  was  rash 
and  unguarded ;  he  had  served  his  apprenticeship  to  a  humble  surveyor,  near 
the  priest's,  and  was  about  to  commence  business  for  himself.  Any  young  man 
might  have  loved  Dora  for  her  own  sake ;  but,  as  she  was  considered  "  a  for- 
tune," she  would,  no  doubt,  be  sought  by  many.  "  Raking  Phil  Waddy"  was 
the  third  son  of  a  half  gentleman — a  noxious  species,  almost  peculiar  to  Ireland ; 
these  half  gentry  are  whole  idle,  and,  on  the  strength  of  their  relationship  to 
some  rich  family,  or  on  the  prospect  of,  at  some  future  period,  being  rich 
themselves,  they  exist  without  any  visible  means  of  support,  except  what  they 
"  genteelly"  beg :  not  that  they  are  ill  dressed,  or  ill  fed,  far  from  it ;  they  go 
from  house  to  house,  relying  upon  the  hospitality  of  the  owners,  and  always 
manage  to  claim  relationship  with  the  opulent,  who,  "  for  the  sake  of  the 
family,"  will  not  suffer  them  to  wear  a  shabby  appearance.  The  females  of  this 
species  make  excellent  toadies,  and  the  males,  chorus-laughs  ;  they  draw  corks, 
tell  lies,  smuggle  occasionally,  thrash  bailiffs,  seduce  innocent  girls,  and  end  their 
lives  generally  (for  the  system  cannot  always  last)  either  in  New  South  Wales, 
or  in  a  jail.  Phil's  father  as  yet,  had  done  neither;  he  dwelt  some  eight 
miles  from  Father  Mike's,  with  his  wife,  who  had,  at  one  time,  possessed  both 
money  and  beauty,  but  was  now  passee,  in  a  tumble-down  house  by  the  way- 
side, where  the  nettle  and  the  thistle  strove  for  mastery,  fit  emblems  of  the 
bitterness  and  neglect  that  existed  in  the  uncomfortable  dwelling.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Waddy  agreed  but  on  one  subject,  namely,  that,  as  they  were  well  con- 
nected, it  was  quite  impossible  to  put  their  sons  (fortunately,  there  were  no 
daughters)  to  any  business,  and  that,  as  they  were  nice-looking  lads,  they  might 
visit  from  one  house  to  another,  until  they  obtained  commissions  either  in  the 
navy  or  in  the  army.  They  were  received  by  a  good  many  respectable  families, 
but  there  was  a  cloud,  a  something,  inexpressible,  yet  felt,  that  hung  over 


FATHER   MIKE.  203 

their  characters,  more  particularly  that  of  Philip;  although  he  seemed  a 
rattling,  lively  fellow,  gifted  with  much  talent,  and  foremost  with  the  jest.  A 
relative  wished  him  to  study  the  law,  and  placed  him  with  a  very  eminent  soli- 
citor in  Dublin;  he  returned,  soon  after,  to  his  father's  house — no  one  knew 
why ;  but  the  shadow  had  deepened  over  him.  In  person  he  was  not  so  stout 
as  he  was  muscular;  his  hair  was  light,  his  forehead  well  proportioned,  his  lip 
smiling,  his  eye,  in  unguarded  moments,  like  a  cat's  —  fierce  and  prowling. 
Dora's  fortune  attracted  his  attention ;  as  to  love,  he  knew  it  not ;  the  word  flew 
often  from  his  lip,  but  it  sprung  not  from  his  heart ;  he  had  read  of  a  new  phi- 
losophy, too,  and  because  he  was  quick-sighted  enough  to  discern  the  errors  of 
Catholicism,  he  grasped  at'  the  belief  that  there  was  no  religion  that  ought  to 
interfere  between  his  passions  and  their  gratification.  The  spring  budded,  the 
summer  glowed,  the  autumn  yielded  her  fruit,  and  the  winter — the  seasons'  night 
— afforded  leisure  for  reflection ;  yet  Philip  heeded  neither  their  beauty  nor  their 
usefulness,  for  he  had  said  in  his  heart — "  There  is  no  God !"  He  was  too  cun- 
ning to  give  utterance  to  these  thoughts,  and  made  even  Father  Mike  believe  that 
he  would  soon  settle  down  into  a  steady  man ;  he  visited  frequently  at  his  house, 
as  he' said,  to  benefit  by  his  instruction.  The  priest,  however,  perceived  Dora's 
kindly  feelings  towards  him,  and  was  not  inclined  to  encourage  them :  Brian,  he 
knew,  was  much  more  likely  to  make  her  lastingly  happy,  from  the  correctness 
and  uniformity  of  his  conduct. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  we  have  just  recorded,  Father  Mike  was  pacing 
leisurely  along  the  high  road  leading  to  Ross,  when  his  kinsman,  Brian,  met  him, 
with  the  salutation : 

"  I  was  just  stepping  down  to  ye,  sir,  to  speak  a  word  that 's  very  heavy  at 
my  heart.  You  know  that,  ever  since  she  was  a  child,  you  Ve  said,  I  might 
•wear  her  if  I  could  win  her,  when  she  grew  up ;  but  there 's  no  chance  of  it  as 
long  as  that  rattling  fellow,  Phil,  with  his  coaxing  words,  and  his  learning,  and 
his  fine  clothes,  is  at  her  side  ;  and  I  just  wanted  to  ask  yer  reverence  if  I  might 
take  upon  me  to  tell  him  to  keep  his  distance,  and  then  I  should  have  some 
chance." 

"  Who  are  you  speaking  of,  Brian  ?" 

"  Oh,  ye  know  very  well ;  who  but  my I  wish  ye  'd  marry  us  out  of 

hand,  and  let  her  be,  indeed,  my  dear  little  Dora.  Sure  she  could  lead  me  with 
a  halter  o'  snow." 

"  There  are  two  words  to  that ;  or,  indeed,  I  may  say,  but  one,  and  that 's 
her's,  for  mine  you  have,  and  my  heart  along  with  it.  As  to  Philip,  he  is  a  wild, 
rattling  boy,  and  a  strange,  but  he  would  not.  do  an  unhandsome  turn  for  a  king's 
ransom  ;  only,  to  be  sure,  girls  do  fancy  odd  chaps  sometimes,  and  I  '11  just  tell 
him  my  mind." 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  leave  me  to  do  that,  sir,"  said  Brian,  earnestly ;  "  don't 
meddle  nor  make  with  him;  neither  half  nor  whole  lawyers  are  good  for  much, 
and  I  '11  speak  to  him  myself." 

"  Well  done,  Brian,  my  boy !"  replied  Father  Mike,  laughing.    "  So  you  think 


204  FATHER    MIKE. 

yourself  more  fit  to  deal  with  a  bit  of  a  lawyer — you,  who  are  only  two-and- 
twenty — than  an  old,  sober  fellow,  who  has  seeYi  summers  threescore-and-two 
pass  over  his  grey  head.  Ay,  the  old  story,  youth  and  inexperience  versus  age 
and  wisdom !"  The  priest  laughed  again,  and  Brian,  with  a  serious  aspect,  laid 
his  hand  on  the  bridle-rein,  and  said : — 

"  Sir,  there  's  more  about  that  fellow  than  you  believe.  As  I  'm  a  living  soul, 
he  meddles  and  makes  with  more  than  concerns  him." 

"  There  again,  now !— ye  think  yerself  sharper  than  me,  just  because  ye  're  a 
little  jealous  of  Philip.  Ah !  when  I  was  young,  before  I  was  priested,  I  was 
like  you ;  but  now — there 's  Philip,  I  declare !— don't  look  so  like  a  thunder-storm, 
Brian." 

"  I  will  see  you  to-night,  sir,  at  eight,  if  you  will  be  at  home,"  replied  the 
young  man,  hastily;  "good-bye."  He  was  going  to  cut  into  a  path  which 
crossed  some  pasture-land,  when  Father  Mike,  in  an  authoritative  tone, 
ordered  him  to  stop,  and  not  to  run  as  if  "ould  Nick  was  at  his  heels." 
Accordingly,  Brian  met  Phil  with  ill-concealed  dislike:  while  Philip  smiled 
with  gracious  sweetness,  inquired  kindly  after  Dora,  and,  with  an  uncon- 
strained and  even  careless  manner,  gave  the  "  farewell  kindly,"  and  passed  on. 

"  That  fellow  's  a  match  for  the  '  devil  and  Lord  Castlereagh,' "  muttered 
Brian ;  "  but  for  all  that  I  '11  be  a  match  for  him,  clever  as  he  is.  I  'm  just  think- 
ing, yer  reverence,"  he  commenced,  after  a  short  pause,  "  that  that  chap 's  never 
without  his  fowling-piece  lately ;  sure  the  sporting  season 's  over." 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what,  Brian,  I  '11  not  listen  to  anything  you  have  to  say  in  your 
present  humour;  come  over  this  evening,  and  we'll  both  talk  it  out.  There, 
don't  torment  me  now  with  your  nonsense ;  go  your  ways,  and  let  me  be  at 
peace,  though  you  can't  be  so  yourself,  or  I  '11  tell  Dora  what  a  discontented 
temper  you  possess."  So  saying,  the  priest  rode  on,  and,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few 
moments,  Brian  proceeded  homewards. 

The  evening  advanced  very  slowly,  in  the  lover's  opinion ;  and  when  he 
left  his  office  and  arrived  at  Carrick,  on  his  way  to  father  Mike's,  he  found  it 
was  only  five  o'clock.  Martin  whom  he  had  met,  told  him  that  Miss  Dora 
was  up  the  village,  and  he  stationed  himself  in  the  window  of  the  public-house, 
thinking  she  would  pass  that  way,  and  that  he  could  walk  home  with  her.  At 
last  a  neighbour  induced  him  to  take  one,  only  one,  glass  of  whiskey,  "  to 
keep  up  his  heart ;"  and  then,  another  prevailed  on  him  to  take  part  of  a 
tumbler  of  "  real  Cork,"  that  wouldn't  hurt  a  new-born  baby,  and  was  as  mild 
as  new  milk;  and  after  that  poor  Brian  needed  no  further  pressing.  "Let 
the  devil  in,  and  he  Ml  keep  the  castle ;"  and  so  it  was.  Glass  succeeded  glass, 
and  at  last,  when  Brian  was  more  than  half  tipsy,  Philip  Waddy  entered.  He 
appeared  in  high  spirits,  and  drew  near  the  place  where  Brian  and  his  friends 
were  sitting.  Brian  at  first  resolved  to  hold  his  peace,  and  keep  his  thoughts 
to  himself,  but  some  remarks  that  Waddy  made  annoyed  him,  and,  with  the 
restless  feeling  of  drunkenness,  he  seemed  anxious  to  engage  in  a  quarrel. 


FATHER   MIKE.  205 

Philip  on  the  contrary,  appeared  wishful  to  avoid  it ;  and  their  companions,  Irish- 
like,  always  anxious  for  "  a  row,"  thought  him  by  far  too  peaceable. 

"  Come  my  boys,"  said  Waddy,  "  I  '11  give  ye  something  to  drink  upon ;  here 
goes !  Oh !  I  bar  water,  it  shall  be  the  pure  whiskey ;  what,  Brian ! — you  must 
drink  it— fill,  fill!" 

"I  won't,"  replied  Brian,  "I  have  just  taken  enough,  and  there  .is  nothing, 
as  Father  Mike  says,  so  much  to'  be  thought  of  in  a  young  man  as — 
sobriety." 

A  loud  laugh  followed  this  speech,  and  Philip  continued  : — 

"  Never  mind — up,  boys,  that  won't  flinch  from  a  glass,  or  the  health  of  a 
pretty  girl.  Now,  with  three-times-three,  as  they  used  to  say  in  our  Dublin  club 
— long  life,  health,  and  beauty  for  ever  to  Dora  O'Hay !" 

In  an  instant  Brian  sprang  from  his  seat,  his  cheek  flushing,  while  he 
hastily  inquired,  what  right  Phil  Waddy  had  to  name  Dora  O'Hay  after  that 
fashion  ? 

"  Now,  Brian,  my  boy,  keep  cool ;  I  suppose  I  've  a  right  to  name  a  girl  I  love, 
and  one  who  I  Ve  positive  proof  doesn't  hate  me,  when  and  where  I  please ;  so 
take  it  asy." 

"  Ye  lie !"  said  Brian,  fiercely ;  "  ye  've  no  proof  that  she  loves  ye — ye  're  a 
false  liar !" 

Phil  was  not  brave,  but  he  made  a  show  of  courage,  advanced  towards  Brian 
with  his  fists  clenched,  and  then  backed,  observing,  "  If  ye  weren't  her  cousin, 
by  the  powers  I  'd  tear  ye  limb  from  limb !" 

"  I  '11  tell  ye  what,  Phil  Waddy,  ye  think  yerself  a  gentleman ;  gentleman, 
indeed !  the  sweepings  o'  the  gentry ! — and  ye  think  people  are  afraid  of  ye ; 
but  ye  're  mistaken ;  and  I  '11  tell  ye  what  ye  are — and  these  honest  men  to  the 
fore  ! — ye  're  no  better  than  a  well-dressed  beggar ;  and  when  ye  hear  the  dinner- 
bell  ring  at  the  grand  houses,  in  ye  go,  and  then  sit  at  the  foot  o'  the  table,  and 
eat  and  drink  what  ye  'd  scorn  to  work  for.  But  it 's  not  the  worst;  I  could  say 
that  of  you,  Phil  Waddy,  that  would  place  ye  as  high  as  the  gallows-top,  if  ye 
were  as  grand  as  Colclough,  and  make  ye  a  thing  that  the  crow  and  the  raven 
would  turn  from,  for  sure  natur  would  tell  them  that  even  yer  corpse  was 
poisoned  with  the  badness  o'  yer  shrivelled  heart ! — only  mind  the  ould  vault  in 
Dane's  Castle,  and  who  ye  met  there,  and  what  ye  said  last  Monday  was  a 
week  !  But  never  heed  turning  pale,  I  'd  scorn  to  be  an  informer ;  only,  as  to 
Dora  O'Hay,  I  warn  ye — lave  her ;  the  vulture  and  the  wood-quest  'ud  be  bad 
companions." 

So  saying,  Brian  strode  out  of  the  public-house,  and  Waddy  made  no 
attempt  to  follow.  If  Brian's  threat  had  moved  him,  he  concealed  it  effec- 
tually from  his  half-drunken  companions,  although  some  of  them  afterwards 
pretended  to  remember,  when  the  occurrences  of  that  evening  were  referred 
to,  that  Waddy's  eyes  glared  fearfully,  and  that  his  lips  quivered.  Again  they 
drank  of  the  liquid  fire,  and  none  of  the  party  were  able  to  call  to  mind  at 
what  hour,  exactly,  Waddy  departed ;  long,  certainly,  he  did  not  remain.  The 


206  FATHER   MIKE. 

snow  was  falling  thickly  around  him,  but  it  had  not  obliterated  the  foot- 
marks of  one  who  wended  a  somewhat  unsteady  pace  towards  the  priest's 
dwelling  on  the  hill.  Near  the  village  there  were  many  prints  on  the  whitened 
surface ;  but,  as  the  lights  twinkled  more  faintly  in  the  cottage  windows,  there 
was  but  one  track  distinguishable  by  the  light  of  a  moon  somewhat  obscured 
by  white  but  opaque  clouds.  Waddy  kept  on  the  trail  like  a  bloodhound; 
his  gun  was  slung  across  his  shoulder,  and  in  his  right  hand  he  carried  a  stout 
stick :  the  shadow  of  a  huge  black  thorn-tree  crossed  his  path ;  he  stopped, 
sprang  amid  its  branches,  and  bore  down  a  thick  and  knotted  bough ;  hastily 
he  tore  off  the  slighter  twigs,  and  flinging  his  former  staff  over  the  hedge, 
firmly  grasped  the  one  he  had  just  gathered.  The  next  shadow  he  perceived 
was  moving  onwards,  and  his  speed  increased — as  he  thought  to  himself — 
'*  I  was  right ;  I  knew  there  was  some  one  in  the  under- vault ;  and,  from  its 
size,  there  could  have  been  but  one  /" — and  the  murmur  of  a  low,  but  fiend-like 
laugh  mingled  with  the  whistling  wind :  and  then  he  thought,  "  Fool,  fool,  fool, 
not  to  keep  his  own  counsel !"  Brian  heard  not  the  footstep — it  fell  lightly ;  his 
thoughts  were  with  Dora ;  they  were  seated,  in  fancy,  at  the  priest's  cheerful 
fire,  and  he  almost  imagined  he  could  hear  the  soft  music  of  her  evening  song, 
at  the  very  moment  when  the  murderous  club  was  raised  for  his  destruction ; 
hard,  hard  it  fell,  and  the  heart  was  aroused  from  its  trance,  and  the  body  was 
grovelling  in  the  snow ;  harder,  and  yet  more  hard ;  and  then  the  crackling 
sound  of  the  crushed  skull-bones,  and  the  warm  oozing  and  outpouring  of  the 
red  blood,  on  the  fair  white  robe  that  covered  the  earth  !  Then,  as  the  murderer, 
like  a  second  Cain,  stood  over  the  prostrate  dead,  came  the  hasty  trampling  of 
a  horse,  and  Father  Mike  issued  from  a  grove  of  tall  fir-trees  that  joined  the 
road,  and  scowled  on  the  black  deed — the  first  within  man's  memory  that  had 
ever  been  perpetrated  there.  In  an  instant,  before  Waddy  could  move  hand  or 
foot,  the  priest  sprang  off  his  horse,  and  grappled  with  him :  the  moon  shone 
brightly  forth,  as  if  to  show  the  unequal  struggle,  for  the  aged  man  was  over- 
powered, and  his  throat  was  pressed,  for  a  time,  almost  to  suffocation :  the  fiend, 
however,  relaxed  his  hold,  and  spoke : 

"  You  are  there,  and  you  see  what  I  have  done.  Why  didn't  ye  pass  on,  or 
what  devil  brought  ye  to  yer  own  death  ?  No — hear  me  out ;  stir  hand  or  foot, 
and  this  ends  ye !"  And  he  drew  a  pistol  from  his  bosom.  "  Ah,  ah  !  I  'm  not 
priest-ridden,  and  think  as  little  of  one  sort  of  earth  as  of  another.  Only  look 
ye,  Father  Mike,  in  Counsellor  Finlon's  desk  (and  a  superstitious  old  dog  he 
was),  were  the  papers  that,  if  shown,  would  have  hung  you  out  and  out,  many 's 
the  day  ago;  you  know  for  what — for  in  yer  young  days  ye  were  bitter  enough 
against  government.  Well,  it 's  good  to  have  more  pocket  pistols  than  one ;  so 
I  took  them,  and  a  few  others  that  might  stand  me  at  a  pinch,  and  would  never 
be  missed  now,  as  the  matter's  as  good  as  forgotten ;  and  so  ye  see,  holy  father, 
you  tell,  and  hang  me ;  and  I  tell,  and  hang  you.  It  'ud  be  easier  to  settle  ye 
here,  but  I  don't  care  to  do  that ;  eo  if  you  '11  let  me  alone,  I  '11  let  you  alone  : 
there,  jog  off;  but  mark — there  are  those  in  the  next  barony  that,  if  finger  is 


FATHER   MIKE.  207 

raised  against  me,  don't  care  a  traneen  for  priests,  bishops,  cardinals,  or  pope. 
Never  mind — no  nostrum  of  yours  can  make  that  feel  again  !"— and  he  pushed 
his  foot  against  the  stiffening  body  of  poor  Brian,  over  which  Father  Mike  had 
stooped — "  so  much  for  your  immortality !" 

The  murderer  did  not  utter  another  word,  but'  turned  into  the  little  wood  that 
skirted  the  road. 

Father  Mike  deliberately  mounted  his  horse,  and  paced  slowly  homewards ; 
the  horrid  events  that  pressed  upon  his  brain  almost  deprived  him  of  reason. 
Brian  dead — Waddy,  the  murderer — the  struggle — the  papers.  He  writhed 
under  the  powerful  coil  of  the  serpent  he  had  fostered  and  befriended.  In  this 
state  of  mental  wretchedness,  uncertain  how  to  act,  he  arrived  at  his  house. 

Let  us  leave  this  fearful  incident  of  our  tale  for  a  while,  to  relate  a  few  of 
the  circumstances  that  led  to  the  dreadful  occurrence  which,  for  the  first 
time  within  the  memory  of  man,  had  laid  an  indelible  stain  on  the  parish  of 
Bannow. 

The  fact  was,  before  the  Irish  reign  of  terror  of  1798,  Father  Mike,  like 
many  of  the  Romish  clergy,  had  entered  into  a  clandestine  correspondence  with 
foreign  powers;  this  had  been  suspected,  and  after  the  rebellion,  he  was 
arraigned  on  the  charge  of  high  treason.  Proof,  however,  was  wanting ;  and  it 
was  believed  that  Counsellor  Finlon,  who  conducted  the  prosecution,  had  been 
induced  to  suppress  the  principal  evidenpe  against  him;  this  however,  was 
merely  suspicion.  Father  Mike  was  acquitted,  returned  to  his  parish  much 
wiser  than  he  had  left  it,  and  afterwards  showed  his  good  sense  by  never 
meddling  in  politics ;  and,  as  party  feeling  died  away,  the  charge  was  almost 
forgotten. 

It  has  been  seen  that  poor  Brian  was  justified  in  thinking  so  ill  of  Waddy ; 
but  he  was  most  imprudent  in  applying  his  information  as  he  did.  The  horror 
which  the  lower  and  middling  class  of  Irish  have  of  delivering  any  one  up  to  the 
violated  laws  of  their  country,  is  a  fearful  source  of  evil ;  indeed,  in  the  most 
civilized  parts  of  the  Island,  this  feeling  still  exists.  An  old  ruin,  called  Dane's 
Castle,  was  on  the  estate  of  a  gentleman  in  the  neighbourhood,  and,  as  it  was 
crumbling  fast  to  decay,  he  wished  to  have  it  pulled  down.  Brian,  who,  in  his 
capacity  of  surveyor — architect,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  a  country  union  of 
both,  had  been  engaged  to  build  and  repair  some  offices  about  his  house — was 
directed  to  examine  the  stones  of  the  castle,  and  inform  him  if  they  could  be 
usefully  employed  in  the  new  building.  The  relic  of  olden  times  was  far  from 
any  dwelling,  and  even  the  few  cattle  that  used  to  shelter  beneath  its  walls  had 
lately  deserted  it.  Some  scattered  brushwood  grew  around  it,  and  the  strong 
ivy  might  be  said  to  repay  its  former  support  by  keeping  the  mouldering  frag- 
ments together.  Evening  was  closing  when  Brian  went  to  inspect  it ;  he 
thought  it  almost  too  late  to  observe  the  ruin  distinctly,  but  then  it  was  a 
"  good  step  to  go  and  come ;"  and  after  examining  the  outer  stones,  he 
descended  into  a  little  cell,  or  cave,  which,  tradition  said,  had  been  the  abode 
of  a  pious  monk  many  centuries  ago ;  the  grey  twilight  stole  tremblingly  through 


208  FATHER    MIKE. 

the  various  apertures  in  the  decayed  wall  and  stony  ceiling,  and  the  surveyor 
was  on  the  point  of  clambering  up,  when  Waddy's  voice  struck  upon  his  ear ; 
he  could  not  be  said  to  suspect  anything,  yet  he  stood  motionless,  and 
heard  him  in  earnest  conversation  with  a  stranger,  one  not  of  the  province  of 
Leinster. 

44 They  can't  have  got  scent  of  me,"  said  Philip,  "It's  morally  impossible; 
however,  it  '11  be  a  lesson  to  the  rest  not  to  be  lettin'  their  land  to  new 
tenants." 

"  I  think,"  replied  the  other,  "  we  could  have  warned  them  off,  only 
ye  advised  the  burnin';  and  to  be  sure  there  was  nothin'  else  for  it,  when 
once  the  robbery  was  finished,  for  they  all  knew  us.  How  were  ye  ever  back 
in  time  ?" 

"  Oh,  the  mare 's  worth  a  million ! — she  's  prime.  'T  isn't  the  first  time,  nor 
won't  be  the  last,  I  made  my  neighbour's  horse  do  the  turn :  and  the  best  of 
it  is,  when  Sam  Corish  found  her  warm  in  the  mornin',  he  sets  off  to  the  wise 
man  for  a  charm ;  and  there 's  a  horse-shoe  nailed  to  the  door ;  for  he  swears  the 
faries  are  after  Black  Bess !" 

"  Well,  Phil,  ye  're  strong  and  hearty.  I  own  the  job  was  almost  too  much 
for  me :  I  can't  bear  finishing  the  innocent  women  and  childer." 

"  Oh,  I  thought  ye  'd  better  sense  than  that !  Sure  it  puts  'em  out  of  pain. 
But  what  I  wanted  to  say  most  to  you  is,  how  we  're  to  manage  when  this 
place  comes  down — (there  'ud  be  fine  pickings  in  the  house  that  owns  it,  but 
I  '11  have  no  hand  in  anything  so  near  home);  you  know  this  is  a  very. con- 
venient place  to  stow  any  little  thing  the  Roving  Jenny  puts  in,  till  we  send  it 
off.  Bridge's  chamber 's  too  exposed ;  this  is  far  from  the  sea,  to  be  sure,  yet 
it  is  lonely ;— however,  we  '11  talk  more  about  it ;  there 's  nothing  hid  away 
now,  and  that  sop  of  a  fellow,  Brian,  '11  be  looking  here  for  the  sake  of 
the  stones,  to-morrow,  I  suppose.  However,  you  step  to  the  Public,  and 
hear  the  news — they're  almost  tired  of  talking  of  the  burning  in  the  county 
Waterford." 

Even  when  the  echo  of  their  footsteps  died  away,  Brian  could  hardly  believe 
the  reality  of  what  he  had  heard,  and  he  resolved  to  keep  it  to  himself  until  a  fit 
opportunity  occurred  of  mentioning  it  to  his  father  confessor,  and  asking  his 
advice.  His  imprudence  at  the  public-house  cost  him  his  life,  for  Philip  was 
assured  that  he  knew  his  secret. 

When  father  Mike  returned  to  his  home,  after  the  dreadful  scene  he  had 
witnessed,  he  was  followed  in  the  distance  by  the  murderer,  who,  although  he 
thought  the  priest  sufficiently  in  his  power,  feared  that  something  might  induce 
him  to  deliver  him  up  to  justice.  The  glimmering  light  from  the  kitchen- 
window  attracted  his  attention,  and  he  carefully  watched  the  movements 
within,  until  the  moment  when  Father  Mike  was  about  to  speak  of  him,  in  the 
presence  of  Dora.  He  remained  outside  the  house,  like  a  prowling  wolf,  after 
the  shutter  had  been  fastened,  and  at  length  saw  a  single  ray  stream  from 
Dora's  window;  the  demoniac  thought  flashed  across  his  brain  that,  if  he 


FATHER    MIKE.  209 

could  speak  to  the  innocent  and  affectionate  girl,  he  might  win  her  to  his 
purpose,  and  thus  have  a  double  hold  on  the  priest.  The  window  almost 
rested  on  the  top  of  a  sloping  roof,  and  was  easy  of  access ;  he  crept  up  the 
thatch,  and  through  the  uncurtained  lattice  saw  Dora  sitting  on  the  side  of  her 
small,  low  bed,  her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  her  whole  appearance  betoken- 
ing much  and  bitter  sorrow.  He  tapped  at  the  window,  and  she  looked 
towards  it,  but  with  a  bewildered  ken,  as  if  she  hardly  comprehended  what  it 
meant. 

"  Dora,  dear  Dora,  hush !  Sure  ye  know  me,  love  ?  I  just  want  to  speak  one 
word  to  you;  there,  don't  be  frightened — why  should  ye? — just  open  the  window 
for  one  little  minute." 

Dora  moved  towards  it,  her  whole  frame  violently  agitated ;  she  tried  to  speak, 
but  the  words  died  on  her  lip,  and  she  motioned  him  to  be  gone. 

"  No,  love,  no ;  not  till  ye  have  heard  me.  Sure  I  'm  yer  sweetheart,  and  will 
be  yer  husband  in  spite  of  them  all ;  and  now  every  one 's  asleep,  there  's  no  harm 
in  your  speaking  to  one  you  love." 

She  drew  still  nearer  the  window,  but  utterance  was  denied  her,  and  again 
she  moved  her  hand  for  him  to  depart. 

"Undo  the  fastening,  love,"  he  repeated;  but  still  she  motioned  him 
away.  "  Then,"  said  he,  "  as  I  must  speak  to  you,  you  force  me  to  this !" 
and,  urged  by  every  bad  and  unmanly  passion,  he,  by  one  strong  effort,  burst 
open  the  casement.  Dora  gave  a  faint  scream,  and  fell  on  the  floor ;  he  was 
in  the  act  of  entering,  when  little  Martin  appeared  at  the  chamber-door,  and 
presented  to  his  breast  a  double-barrelled  gun  that  was  nearly  as  long  as  the 
room. 

"  I  ax  yer  pardon,  Mister  Phil ;  but  I  can't  help  it ;  it  comes  quite  nataral- 
like  to  purtect  a  woman ;  and  I  '11  just  take  lave  to  say  that  ye  choose  a 
mighty  quare  time  for  visiting,  particular  whin  there 's  no  one  to  resave  ye — for 
Miss  there  looks  as  dead  as  a  door-nail.  Hulloo — hulloo — hulloo — oo— o  !  all  o' 
ye !"  and  he  sung  out  a  tally-ho.  "  Here 's  housebreaking,  and  fire,  and  Miss 
Dory  dead  ! — If  ye  stir  hand  or  fut,  Misther  Phil  (I  'm  heart-sorry  for  ye,  but  it 's 
thrue  as  that  I  'm  little  Martin) — if  ye  stir  hand  or  fut,  ye  're  gone — gone,  hot- 
trot  to  the  devil !" 

At  this  moment  Father  Mike  rushed  into  the  apartment ;  enraged  at  seeing 
his  niece  to  all  appearance  dead  on  the  floor,  and  Waddy  half  in  at  the 
window,  forgetful  of  all  circumstances  connected  with  himself,  he  articulated, 
in  a  voice  rendered  hoarse  by  violent  feeling — "  Seize — seize  him,  Martin ! — 
he  is  a  murderer  /"  By  this  time  Dick,  and  another  "  working-boy,"  who  lived 
in  the  house,  had  entered; — the  wretched  man  made  an  effort  to  escape,  by 
drawing  back  from  the  window.  Martin,  however,  resolved  he  should  not  get 
off  so  easily,  and  discharged  his  gun ;  the  fire  took  effect,  and  Philip  rolled  off 
the  building  over  which  he  had  climbed,  but  a  few  minutes  before,  in  perfect 
strength  and  fiend-like  vigour. 

Martin  looked  out  of  the  window  after  him,  and  quietly  said,  "  He 's  only  a 
27 


210  FATHER   MIKE. 

taste  hurt — not  kilt  outright;  we'll  step  down  and  pick  him  up,  and  then 
yer  reverence  '11  tell  us  what  to  do  wid  him ;  there,  Miss  Dora 's  a-coming  to 
herself,  the  darlint !  God  preserves  his  own !" 

On  examination,  Philip  was  discovered  to  have  been  badly  wounded  in  the 
shoulder ;  he  would  not  suffer  any  dressing  to  be  applied,  but  sat,  the  picture  of 
sullen  crime  and  obstinacy,  in  the  kitchen,  which  filled  by  degrees  with  the 
neighbouring  peasantry.  He  neither  spoke  nor  moved;  when  the  priest  addressed 
him  he  smiled — such  a  smile ! — not  like  those  of  other  days. 

It  may  be  here  necessary  to  state,  that  when  Father  Mike  left  his  niece  in  her 
little  chamber,  he  went  to  the  ladder-stair  which  led  to  Martin's  dormitory,  and 
called  him  to  arise.  In  a  moment  Martin  was  with  his  master ;  and  the  priest 
hastily  told  him  that  murder  had  been  committed  in  the  neighbourhood — that  as 
he  was  coming  home  he  had  witnessed  it ;  at  the  same  time  carefully  concealing 
that  Waddy  was  the  perpetrator  of  so  foul  a  deed ;  he  directed  him  to  arouse 
the  farming  boys,  and  bring  the  body  to  the  house.  Martin  obeyed,  wisely 
thinking  that  he  ought  to  take  the  gun ;  and  while  in  the  act  of  loading  it,  Dora's 
faint  scream  broke  upon  his  ear. 

When  the  bustle  had  subsided  a  little,  the  two  young  men,  accompanied  by 
three  or  four  of  the  peasants,  went  to  seek  for  the  body  of  poor  Brian.  Martin 
alone  remained — his  long  gun  resting  on  his  knees,  and  his  eye  steadily  fixed  on 
Philip. 

The  remains  of  the  murdered  youth  were  brought  in.  As  they  passed 
Waddy,  many  believed  they  bled  afresh ;  he  started  from  his  seat,  and  one 
thrill  of  human  feeling  seemed  to  rush  through  his  frame.  He  gazed  for  an 
instant,  and  then  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  They  laid  the  corpse  on 
the  long  table,  where  not  two  hours  before,  the  priest's  supper  had  rested ; 
and  deep  groans,  and  bitter  sobs,  echoed  through  the  humble  room.  The 
murderer  sat  apart,  his  wound  still  bleeding,  while  all  looked  upon  him  as  a 
being  accursed. 

The  early  morning  saw  the  culprit  in  the  hands  of  justice.  When  he  was  led 
forth,  manacled,  to  the  car  that  was  to  convey  him  to  Wexford  jail,  he  turned  to 
Father  Mike,  and,  showing  his  wrists,  said,  in  a  deep  under-tone,  "  This  is  the 
liberty  you  promised !" 

"  I — I — "  replied  the  priest,  "  I  promised  you  no  liberty.  I  confess,  I  deserved 
•what  followed.  You  intimidated  me  by  your  threat,  at  the  very  moment  when 
self  ought  to  have  been  a  secondary  consideration  ;  but  God  is  wise — -he  would 
not  suffer  the  murderer  to  escape ;  and  I  am  punished  for  my  weakness.  But 
you  must  have  been  worse  than  devil,  at  such  a  moment,  to  think  of  harming 
that  spotless  child ;  repent,  there  is  yet  time — repent ;  although  there  can  be  no 
deeper  hell  than  your  own  heart !" 

He  answered  not ;  the  car  and  escort  pursued  their  way  amid  the  execrations 
of  the  peasantry. 

The  wake  took  place  as  usual,  and  great  was  the  assemblage;  but  the 
untimely  death  of  the  young  man'  shed  a  gloom  over  it,  which  neither  "  tay,. 


FATHER   MIKE.  211 

whiskey,  snuff,  nor  tobacco,"  could  dissipate.  The  best  "  keeners"  were  col- 
lected, but  their  hired  cries  were  not  heeded.  Many  sincere  tears  were  shed 
for  poor  Brian,  and  his  good  qualities  were  amply  praised.  "  Och,  sorra  o'  my 
heart !"  sobbed  out  Molly,  "  to  think  the  beautiful  corpse  he  'd  ha'  made,  if  he  'd 
been  let  alone !" 

"  Is  that  yer  trouble  ?"  replied  Martin,  who  was  engaged  in  making  a  "  caul- 
dron" of  hot  whiskey-punch;  "why  then,  Molly — only  ye  haven't  much 
mother-wit  to  yer  own  share — I  think  it 's  a  different  thing  to  that  ye  ought 
to  say." 

"  What  'ud  you  say,  wise  man  Martin  ?"  inquired  one  of  the  company. 

"  Why,  thin,  I  'd  jist  say,  that  it 's  not  much  matter  how  a  corpse  looks,  so 
what  was  once  inside  was  beautiful  and  in  the  thrue  way." 

Towards  morning,  when  the  principal  number  of  people  had  departed,  and 
only  six  or  eight  aged  women  remained  in  the  apartment  with  the  body,  Dora 
Hay  opened  the  chamber-door  to  ascertain  that  all  was  quiet ;  and,  throwing 
the  coverlet  over  her  as  a  mantle,  descended  to  the  "  wake-room."  Her  mind 
had  been  shaken,  yet  at  that  moment  her  purpose  was  nerved  for  temporary 
exertion,  and  she  clearly  comprehended  what  she  was  about  to  undertake. 
When  she  opened  the  door,  her  ghastly  and  unexpected  appearance  terrified  the 
women  and  they  crowded  together.  She  advanced  to  the  table  on  which  the 
corpse  lay,  fully  dressed,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  country.  The  mangled 
head  was  covered,  and  she  did  not  attempt  to  disturb  the  cloth,  but  took  one  of 
the  hands  in  hers.  She  recoiled  from  the  first  touch,  and  the  icy  chill  of  death 
appeared  to  have  been  communicated  to  her.  For  some  moments  she  stood 
motionless  as  chiseled  marble :  again  she  took  the  hand,  and,  slowly  bending  on 
her  knees,  just  touched  it  with  her  lips ;  she  continued  kneeling  for  about  five 
minutes,  with  head  elevated,  and  lips  moving  as  if  in  prayer;  but  no  sound 
escaped  them.  Slowly  she  crossed  herself;  and,  pressing  the  little  crucifix,  that 
was  suspended  from  her  neck,  to  her  heart,  with  the  same  quiet  step  returned  to 
her  apartment. 

The  funeral  was  not  only  numerously,  but  respectably,  attended,  for  rich  and 
poor  lamented  Brian's  untimely  end :  and  I  have  before  said,  that  Father  Mike 
was  universally  esteemed. 

There  was  an  old  miserable-looking  hag  that  resided  over  the  Scar  (an  inlet 
of  the  sea  that  separates  Bannow  from  an  adjoining  parish),  and  near  the  ruins 
of  the  Seven  Castles  of  Clonmines.  This  wretched  object,  had  she  lived  a 
hundred  years  ago,  would  most  certainly  have  been  burned  as  a  witch ;  as  it 
was,  she  was  regarded  both  with  dislike  and  terror  by  old  and  young.  Squalid 
in  her  appearance,  her  rags  fluttering  in  every  passing  blast,  she  sat,  during  the 
funeral,  on  one  of  the  high  tombstones  that  "  mark  the  lowly  dead."  As  the 
crowd  passed  from  the  churchyard,  she  singled  out  Martin,  and  beckoned  him  to 
her.  Martin  was  not  at  all  flattered  by  the  distinction ;  but  too  superstitious  not 
to  attend  her  command,  immediately  obeyed. 

"  God  save  ye  kindly,  Mrs.  Madge  ! — I  'm  glad  to  see  ye." 


212  FATHER   MIKE. 

"  That 's  a  lie,  Martin  Finchley,  and  ye  know  it  is ;  there 's  no  one  glad  to  see 
me — no  one  cares  if  the  earth  opened  and  swallowed  ould  Madge !  But  that 's 
not  what  I  wanted  to  spake  about.  Man  alive ! — if  indeed  ye  be  a  man— don't 
stand  cronauning  there,  but  come  close — closer  to  me !"  And  she  stretched" 
forth  her  bare,  bony  arm,  and  grasping  little  Martin's  shoulder  with  her  long, 
claw-like  fingers,  drew  him  towards  her,  as  a  cat  pulls  out  a  mouse  to  execution. 
"  Ye  know  the  Seven  Castles  o'  Clonmines ;  well,  the  one  next  the  wather,  where 
there  are  such  broad,  flat  stones,  ye  '11  see  one  bigger  nor  the  rest ;  there,  under 
that  you  will  find  what  consarns  Father  Mike  'bove  the  world,  if  ye  '11  take  the 
throuble  to  find  it.  It 's  for  the  sake  of  the  dark-eyed  girl,  that 's  often  done  me 
a  kind  turn,  though  she  's  not  long  for  this  world,  for  her  yarn  is  spun.  There, 
go  yer  ways;  only,  hark  ye,  mind  whin  ye  go  to  the  place,  or,  may-be,  ye '11 
meet  with  more  company  than  ye  'd  bargain  for." 

Martin  loved  his  master  too  well  not  to  risk  even  his  life  for  him  if  it  were 
necessary ;  but  he  felt  delighted  when  he  was  fairly  out  of  Mag's  sight.  Per- 
fectly unconscious  of  what  could  "  consarn  Father  Mike  'bove  the  world,"  he 
concealed  himself  among  the  ruins  of  Clonmines,  until  the  evening  closed; 
he  then  removed  the  large  flat  stone  she  had  described,  and  dug  like  a  rabbit 
for  some  time,  amongst  the  rubbish,  before  he  discovered  anything.  At  last 
he  found  a  small  bundle  of  papers,  tied  with  red  tape,  and  then  a  small 
parcel.  He  was  proceeding  in  his  search,  when  he  thought  he  heard  a  rustling 
on  the  pebbly  shore,  as  if  some  one  was  approaching ;  and,  securing  what  he 
had  found,  he  hastily  got  behind  a  projecting  buttress  of  one  of  the  castles.  His 
conjectures  were  right,  for  a  man  immediately  turned  the  corner  of  a  little  bay, 
and  proceeded  direct  to  the  flat  stone  which  Martin  had  not  time  to  replace. 
The  Irish  dumb  show  is  very  expressive,  and  the  gestures  of  the  disappointed 
seeker  were  strongly  indicative  of  rage  and  disappointment.  The  man  at  last 
went  away ;  and  Martin,  who,  to  use  his  own  expression,  had  "  lain  snug,"  pro- 
ceeded home  with  his  prize.  Arrived  at  Father  Mike's,  he  waited  quietly  in  the 
chimney-corner  until  the  priest  was  disengaged ;  and  then  went  into  the  little 
parlour,  and,  locking  the  door,  crept  round  the  room,  spying  and  peeping  about, 
as  if  the  wall  had  ears.  The  priest,  accustomed  to  Martin's  eccentricities,  did 
not  pay  much  attention  to  his  movements ;  for,  truth  to  say,  he  was  discussing  his 
tumbler  of  whiskey-punch— it  was  not  as  palatable  as  usual,  for  Dora  had  not 
compounded  it  Martin  at  last  approached  the  great  chair,  and  gently  pulled 
the  sleeve  of  his  coat ;  Father  Mike  turned  round,  and  awaited  an  explanation. 
Martin  presented  the  packet. 

Father  Mike  put  on  his  spectacles,  untied  the  fastening,  and,  to  his  no  small 
astonishment,  found  various  memoranda  concerning  circumstances  long  past, 
which  at  once  convinced  him  that  he  had  actually  in  his  possession  the  papers 
to  which  the  villain  Waddy  had  alluded.  The  parcel  contained  also  a  few  small 
articles  of  plate,  and  some  letters  that  mysteriously  alluded  to  dark  and  bloody 
deeds  which  either  had  been,  or  were  to  be,  perpetrated.  Martin  detailed,  in  his 
own  way,  the  manner  in  which  he  obtained  them ;  and  Father  Mike  had  no 


FATHER   MIKE.  213 

doubt  that  they  were  to  have  been  made  use  of  to  his  injury  by  some  of  Waddy's 
associates. 

Every  effort  was  made  to  induce  Waddy  to  disclose  his  crimes,  but  in  vain. 
He  remained  cool  and  collected ;  civil,  but  sarcastic,  to  those  who  approached 
him ;  and  appeared  to  summon  all  his  faculties  for  the  purpose  of  banishing  every 
relic  of  human  feeling  from  his  breast  When  his  mother  visited  his  cell,  he 
received  her  kindly,  but  betrayed  no  emotion,  although  she  wept  upon  his  shoulder 
until  the  fountain  of  her  tears  seemed  dried  up. 

As  the  assizes  drew  near,  rumour  became  more  busy  than  ever,  and  crimes 
were  imputed  to  the  wretched  man,  of  which  it  is  more  than  probable  he  had 
never  been  guilty.  The  day  of  trial  came,  and  Father  Mike  was  summoned  to 
give  evidence  against  the  murderer,  who  had  refused  all  spiritual  aid,  and  would 
converse  neither  with  priest  nor  minister. 

The  crowd  assembled  outside  the  court-house  of  the  county  town,  was  greater 
than  had  ever  been  collected  on  any  former  occasion.  In  Ireland,  the  feelings 
of  the  lower  order  of  people  are  usually  enlisted  in  favour  of  a  prisoner,  for 
they  appear  to  think  that  all  who  come  under  the  arm  of  the  law  are  victims. 
But  it  was  not  so  in  Waddy's  case ;  he  had  murdered  the  kinsman  of  a  priest, 
and  had  attempted  to  violate  the  sanctity  of  a  priest's  house,  which  is  considered 
as  holy  as -the  altar;  the  bitterest  execrations  were,  therefore,  uttered 'against 
him. 

Father  Mike  was  making  his  way  through  the  motley  throng,  when  a  low, 
murmuring  growl  ran  along  the  people,  and  various  exclamations  of — "  Oh,  the 
murdering  reprobate  !" — "  Oh,  to  think  of  it !" — "  Oh,  it  is  impossible  he  could 
be  guilty  of  it !" — struck  upon  the  priest's  ear ;  and  he  soon  learnt  that  Waddy 
had  anticipated  the  sentence  of  the  law,  and  strangled  himself  in  prison. 
#  *  *  *  #  #  #  # 

The  spring  had  passed,  and  the  summer — the  sunny  summer — was  nearly  at 
its  height,  when  the  priest  one  evening  entered  his  little  parlour,  and  called  his 
niece  to  him.  She  was  engaged  at  her  wheel,  the  only  employment  to  which 
she  attended ;  it  appeared  to  give  her  occupation  without  the  effort  of  thinking, 
and  she  turned  it  mechanically  from  morning  until  night. 

"  Dora,"  said  the  kind  old  man,  as  she  entered,  "  Dora,  will  you  take  a  walk 
to  the  village,  or  up  the  hill  ? — you  have  not  been  out  since  Sunday." 

"  Yes,  uncle." 

"  Dora,  stay  one  moment ;  do  not  break  my  heart ;  it  is  old  now,  and  has 
known  much  sorrow — much  sorrow  have  I  known  in  this  world,  Dora;  but, 
child,  the  bitterest  of  all  my  afflictions  would  be  to  see  you— you,  whom  my 
heart  so  joyed  in — pine  away,  and  leave  me.  And,  oh !"  continued  the  weeping 
old  man,  as  he  fell  upon  his  knees,  "  oh  !  with  more  than  enough — with  plenty, 
plenty  to  my  portion,  of  this  world's  good — oh,  Heavenly  Father !  hast  thou 
willed  that  I,  an  old,  grey,  time-worn  man,  should  outlive  all  that  are  dear  to  me, 
and  that  strangers  should  close  my  eyes  ?" 

Dora  also  knelt,  calmly  and  deliberately,  by  her  uncle,  and  looked  steadily  in 


214  FATHER   MIKE. 

his  face.  He  was  much  agitated ;  and  there  was  something  about  her  coun- 
tenance that  betokened  returning  feeling  and  interest. 

"  Sure,  Dora,"  he  proceeded,  after  a  pause,  "  sure  you  can  unburthen  your 
mind  to  me !  Even  your  duties  to  God  have  all  been  neglected — you  have  not 
been  to  the  confessional  since — " 

"Stop,  stop!  I  well  remember  since  when,"  she  interrupted,  hastily — "too 
well !  I  have  been  wrong,  I  know ;  but  all  in  this  world  has  appeared  to  me  so 
changing,  so  wicked,  so  uncertain !  May-be,  dear  uncle,  my  head  has  not  been 
right — everything  seems  changed." 

"  Am  I  changed,  Dory  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no !" — and  tears,  that  sweet  relief  to  the  overcharged  bosom, 
gushed  from  her  eyes,  as  she  threw  her  arms,  with  the  affection  of  former  days, 
round  her  uncle's  neck.  "  I  have  not  cried  this  long,  long  time ;  and  now  I  am 
better — my  head  is  not  so  heavy — and  I  will,  tell  you  now,  dear  uncle,  all  that 
has  passed  in  my  mind.  Brian — poor  Brian ! — I  did  not  think  of  him  as  he 
thought  of  me ;  and  the  black  wickedness  of  that  bad  man,  whose  smile  wiled 
away  my  thoughts ! — but  when  I  saw  Brian's  corpse,  I  knelt  and  made  a  vow 
that  I  would  go  into  a  convent,  and  lead  a  holy  life,  for  his  sake  whom  I  did  not 
value  as  I  ought.  Uncle  dear,  I  am  not  what  I  was,  and  every  day  that  delays 
me  from  a  holy  life,  adds  to  the  sin  of  a  broken  oath." 

The  poor  priest  was  bewildered — almost  distracted  :  to  yield  up,  even  to  the 
church,  the  fair  girl  whom  he  had  expected  to  be  the  blessing  of  his  old  age, 
was  a  trial  for  which  he  was  unprepared,  and  which  he  had  not  strength  to 
meet.  It  was  some  time  before  he  spoke,  and  his  words  were  then  scarcely 
articulate. 

"Dear  Dpra,  I  am  punished!  I  gave  you  the  love  that  belonged  to  the 
Almighty ;  and  now  you  leave  me  in  age  and  helplessness." 

The  next  morning,  Father  Mike  mounted  his  faithful  steed,  and,  at  an  early 
hour,  was  on  the  high  road  to  his  bishop's  house,  having  resolved  to  tell  him  the 
whole  story,  and  .to  act  according  to  his  advice.  The  bishop  felt  much  for  his 
old  friend,  and  observed,  that  Dora  could  easily  be  absolved  from  her  oath,  by 
the  church.  But  her  uncle  knew  that  she  would  persevere,  with  a  sort  of  insanity 
in  her  determination  so  to  devote  herself.  Nevertheless,  the  bishop  thought  he 
would  converse  with  her,  and  see  if  any  plan  could  be  arranged  that  might 
render  Father  Mike  and  his  niece  at  peace  in  their  once  happy  home.  He 
accompanied  the  priest  to  his  dwelling,  and  felt  convinced,  after  a  brief  conver- 
sation with  Dora,  that  her  mind  had  become  weak  and  wandering ;  however, 
he  succeeded  in  persuading  her  that  she  could  perform  her  vow,  and  still  remain 
with  her  uncle,  as  "  it  was  not  likely  he  could  live  long." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  bishop,  "  it  would  be  almost  killing  him  if  you  were 
to  leave  him  now ;  but  put  on  the  dress  of  the  holy  Ursulines — the  order  of  which 
you  intend  to  become,  I  hope,  a  worthy  member — perform  its  penances  and 
prayers,  and  keep  apart  from  the  world  in  your  uncle's  house :  you  will  make 


FATHER    MIKE. 


215 


him  happy ;  and  be  a  blessing  to  that  good  man,  whose  hairs  would  go  down 
with  sorrow  to  the  grave,  if  you  deserted  him  in  his  old  age." 

Dora  has  now  been  some  years  truly  a  "  blessing"  to  her  uncle  and  the  neigh- 
bouring poor ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  determine  whether  or  not  her  intellects  are 
gaining  strength,  as  she  holds  no  converse  with  any  one  except  Father 
Mike.  She  passes  from  cottage  to  cottage,  the  ministering  angel  of  peace  to  the 
afflicted :  neither  joy,  nor,  it  would  seem,  sorrow,  have  marked  her  pale,  marble- 
like  countenance;  and  little  Martin,  who  wears  like  a  Turkey  carpet,  often 
observes,  as  she  passes,  with  slow  but  noiseless  step,  along  the  old  kitchen — 

"  To  think  of  that  banshee-looking  cratur  being  the  dancing,  singing  fairy — 
light  of  eye — light  of  foot — light  of  heart — until  that  horrid  night  of  blood  and 
sin  that  brought  desolation  even  to  the  house  of  FATHER  MIKE  !" 


OLD  FRANK. 


S  long  as  I  can  remember,  Frank  was  called — "  Old 
Frank."  He  was  a  little,  crabbed-looking  man,  bent 
nearly  double ;  had  a  healthy  colouring  on  his  cheek, 
and  a  few,  very  few,  grey  hairs  straying  over  his  bald 
and  shrivelled  forehead ;  with  a  halt  in  his  walk  ;  and 
was  always  either  singing  or  coughing ;  somewhat 
"  cranky"  in  his  temper,  and,  in  his  capacity  of  coach- 
man (which  situation  he  had  filled  for  a  period  of  forty- 
two  years  in' our  family),  exercised  despotic  sway  over 
horses,  dogs,  and  grooms.  He  was  singularly  faithful, 
and  strongly  attached  to  his  master  and  mistress,  his 
horses,  and  myself;  indeed,  as  to  the  two  last,  it  was 
a  matter  of  doubt  which  he  loved  best;  however 
"  snappish"  he  might  have  been  to  others,  he  was  to 
me,  in  my  childish  days,  one  of  the  kindest  and  firmest 
of  friends ;  no  matter  how  I  tormented  him — no  matter  what  pranks  I  played 
(and  they  were  not  a  few),  "  Miss  Maria"  was  always  right,  and  everybody  else 

(216) 


OLD   FRANK.  *>17 

was  wrong.  Having  lived  so  long  in  the  family,  he  was  hardly  looked  upon  as 
a  servant,  and  neither  master  nor  mistress  disputed  his  dictum ;  indeed,  I  do  not 
know  why  they  should,  for,  wherever  his  authority  extended,  matters  were  well 
managed.  The  coats  of  his  carriage  horses  shone  like  French  satin,  and  the 
carriage,  an  old,  lumbering  thing  of  the  last  century,  could  not  have  existed  at 
all  under  the  care  of  any  other  coachman.  Frank,  the  carriage,  and  horses,  had 
grown  old  together ;  they  were  all  of  a  piece,  and  cut  a  remarkable  appearance, 
whenever  they  walked  (for  that  was  their  most  rapid  pace)  out  in  the  bright, 
sunshiny  summer.  But  it  was  not  alone  in  this,  his  principal  situation,  that  Frank 
was  entitled  to,  and  treated  with,  respect.  All  the  perfect,  and  all  the  embryo, 
sportsmen  of  the  neighbourhood  came  to  consult  him  on  every  matter  connected 
with  dogs  and  horses ;  he  was  famed,  all  over  the  county,  for  educating  pointers 
on  the  most  approved  principles,  and  was  permitted  to  have  three  or  four  con- 
stantly in  training  for  the  neighbouring  gentry,  who  always  remunerated  him 
handsomely  for  his  trouble.  He  had  been  an  excellent  sportsman  in  his  youth, 
and  took  much  pride  in  boasting  that,  except  his  head,  all  the  bones  in  his  body 
had  been  broken ;  indeed,  even  his  head  exhibited  a  sufficient  quantity  of  bumps 
to  puzzle  a  phrenologist ;  the  old  man  still  loved  sporting,  and  it  was  owing  to 
this  circumstance  that  Frank  and  I  were  such  great  friends. 

I  certainly  was  "  a  country  child ;"  and  to  escape  from  study,  and  stroll  with 
Frank,  Frank's  dogs,  and  Frank's  daughter,  "  my  kind  and  gentle  nurse,"  was 
one  of  the  greatest  of  my  simple  enjoyments.  I  can  hardly  tell  why,  but  Ban- 
now,  in  my  remembrance,  always  seems  like  fairy -land — its  fields  so  green — its 
trees  so  beautiful — its  inhabitants  so  different  from  any  I  have  elsewhere  met ! 

The  aged  man  used  to  make  it  a  constant  practice  to  take  out  a  steady  old 
pointer,  with  a  young,  untaught,  roving,  but  well-grown  puppy;  and  I  believe 
Joss  (the  old  one)  was  as  much  interested  in  the  business  of  educating  the  young 
dog,  as  Frank  himself.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  used  all  to  wander  among  the 
green  lanes  and  fields,  and,  when  I  was  tired,  nurse  would  seat  me  on  an  old 
grey  stone,  or  rustic  stile,  and  Frank  would  lean  on  his  gun,  and  tell  me  some 
of  the  fairy  tales,  or  legends,  with  which  his  memory  was  so  well  stored.  He 
had  a  most  confirmed  belief  in  banshees,  cluricawns,  fairies,  and  mermaids ;  and 
if  Mary,  who  was  very  superior  to  the  general  order  of  servants,  ever  presumed 
to  doubt  the  truth  of  one  of  her  father's  stories,  he  reproved  her  in  no  gentle 
terms;  and  no  wonder, — he  had  a  mark  in  his  hand,  which  was  actually  given 
by  an  arrow,  shot  at  him  by  a  fairy  queen,  one  evening,  when  he  was  returning 
home  after  a  quiet  carouse  at  Mr.  Talbot's.  He  could  never  be  prevailed  upon 
to  root  up  large  mushrooms  (fairy  tables),  or  to  pull  bulrushes,  (fairy  horses),  lest 
he  might  offend  the  good  people. 

His  most  favourite  walk  was  across  some  young  plantations,  admirable  covers 
for  game,  to  a  small  hill,  thickly  wooded  at  either  side,  where  there  was  a  singu- 
larly fine  oak,  one  of  whose  branches  jutted  suddenly  from  the  trunk,  and  formed 
a  rustic  seat,  which  in  childish  sportiveness,  I  used  to  call  my  throne.  From 
thence  the  prospect  was  very  beautiful :  the  long  white  chimneys  of  my  old  home 
28 


218  OLD    FRANK. 

sprang,  as  it  were,  from  amid  the  trees,  that,  from  this  particular  point  of  view, 
appeared  to  fringe  the  ocean's  brink ;  while  the  many-coloured  foliage  of  the 
lofty  poplar,  dark  cedar,  feathery  birch,  or  magnificent  elm,  gave  richness  and 
variety  to  the  landscape. 

But  in  our  own  summer-house— a  comparatively  rude  structure,  yet  which,  in 
those  days,  was,  to  my  mind,  the  most  perfect  example  of  elegance  and  good 
taste  that  was  ever  erected — how  I  did  love  to  sit,  during  the  long  evenings — 
nurse's  arm  around  me,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  my  irregular  and  restless 
movements  terminating  in  an  upset,  and  listen  with  delight  to  Frank's  fairies, 
about  whom  the  good  old  man  so  dearly  loved  to  talk,  only  interrupting  his  nar- 
rative, now  and  then,  by  a  necessary  word  of  caution  to  his  dogs.  Whenever  J 
urged  him  to  tell  me  a  story,  he  used  to  shake  his  head,  and  say,  "  Och  !  Miss, 
honey,  ye  '11,  may-be,  think  of  ould  Frank  and  his  fairies,  when  ye  '11  be  far  from 
your  native  land,  and  my  poor  smashed  bones  at  rest.  But  my  blessing  be  about 
ye,"  he  would  add,  patriotically,  "  never  deny  your  country." 

My  favourite  story  was,  "  The  Stout  and  Strong  of  Heart ;"  and  I  believe  it 
was  Frank's  favourite  also ;  for  many  a  time  and  oft  has  he  repeated  it  to  me, 
and  always  have  I  listened  with  attention,  pleasing  the  old  man,  while  I  was 
myself  delighted.  I  will  give  it  to  my  readers,  although  I  fear  it  will  lose  much, 
from  the  absence  of  my  ancient  friend,  who  with  so  much  earnestness  and  native 
humour,  related  it. 

"  There  was  plenty  of  mirth,  and  of  everything  else,  in  the  little  cabin  of 
Jerry  Mahony,  for  his  daughter  Ellen  had  just  become  a  bride,  and  the  merry 
party  were  beguiling  the  time  while  the  dinner  was  in  preparation.  The  blind 
piper  was  sitting  on  the  hearth-stone,  making  beautiful  music,  and  now  and 
again  taking  a  sup  of  potheen,  to  the  long  life  of  the  wedded  pair.  Jerry  him- 
self was  listening  to  all  the  compliments  and  good  wishes  of  the  neighbours ;  his 
wife,  Biddy,  busily  placing  all  her  own  and  the  borrowed  delf  upon  the  table,  and 
bustling  her  maid  Peggy  with  a  continual  '  Make  haste,  hurru  ! — 't  is  only  once 
in  a  long  life ;'  while  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  James  and  Ellen  Deasy,  sat  in 
a  corner,  talking  over  their  future  arrangements,  and  planning  ways  and  means 
to  make  themselves  happy  and  comfortable ;  and,  to  be  sure,  the  mother  of  the 
girl  got  everything  in  order.  And  Ellen  was  lovely  and  beautiful  enough  for 
a  queen,  let  alone  a  poor  man's  wife.  But,  although  she  was  made  much  of,  by 
rich  and  poor,  no  one  thought  more  of  her  than  Kit  Murtough,  the  blind  piper ; 
and  good  right  had  he  so  to  do ;  for  she  had  the  pity  for  him,  the  poor,  sightless 
creature : — and  it  was  he  who  made  the  beautiful  music  that  night ;  so  beautiful 
was  it,  that  the  priest  himself  could  stand  it  no  longer,  but  capered  like  a  China- 
man. Well,  the  next  morning,  Biddy  Mahony  went  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
that  led  to  her  daughter's  room — 

" « Ellen,  honey,'  says  she,  *  come  down,  I  have  some  nice  tay  for  ye  both.' 
She  waited,  and  there  was  no  answer ;  so  she  went  up  a  few  steps,  '  James, 
agra !  won't  you  waken  for  me  T  Still  no  answer :  well,  she  went  into  the 
room,  and  stopped,  and  said, '  Why  then  won't  either  of  you  spake  to  your  own 


OLD    PRANK.  219 

mother,  that  gave  birth  to  one,  and  a  wife  to  the  other  ?  Jemmy,  Nelly,  dears ! 
— get  up  and  look  at  the  morning  that's  so  smiling  and  happy.'  Still  not  a 
word :  so  she  went  and  pulled  the  wisp  of  straw  out  of  the  window,  and  let  in 
the  light.  She  then  looked  on  the  bed,  patted  her  child  on  the  cheek,  and  felt 
that  she  was  a  cold  corpse.  Her  bitter  shrieks  soon  woke  the  husband ;  and 
the  neighbours  came  running  in,  in  crowds ;  and  black  grief  was  in  that  cabin, 
where,  the  night  before,  there  had  been  so  much  joy.  Many  suspected  that 
James  Deasy  had  a  hand  in  his  wife's  death,  and  there  were  some  who  told  him 
so.  But  sobs,  from  the  very  depth  of  his  heart,  were  James's  only  answers. 
The  evening  came,  and  the  young  bride  was  laid  out  for  the  wake.  All  was 
got  in  readiness  for  the  '  berring,'  which,  according  to  custom,  was  to  be  on  the 
third  day.  Now,  nobody  took  the  death  of  poor  Ellen  more  to  heart  than  did 
Kit  the  piper,  who  wandered  about  the  neighbourhood  of  her  dwelling,  playing 
only  dismal  tunes,  until  the  night  before  the  funeral,  when  he  was  sitting, 
between  lights,  under  the  corn-rick  that  stood  in  the  sheltered  corner  of  Jerry 
Mahony's  field,  while  the  mournful  music  made  the  place  more  melancholy. 
Suddenly  he  felt  a  rapid  gush  of  wind  pass  by  him,  and  then  all  was  still ;  he 
paused  for  a  while,  and  again  struck  up  the  same  tune,  the  tune  that  poor  Ellen 
so  dearly  loved;  then  the  wind  came  stronger  by  him,  and  again  he  paused; 
once  more  he  began  the  air,  and  the  wind  beat  furiously  against  him.  He  now 
crossed  himself,  and  called  on  the  blessed  Virgin,  when  he  heard  the  voice  of  the 
dead  bride  speak  to  him,  and  say,  « Kit  Murtough,  go  to  my  husband,  and  tell 
him  not  to  weep  for  me,  for  I  am  a  living  woman,  but  the  fairies  carried  me 
away.  Bid  him  come  here  at  nightfall,  and  bring  a  pail  of  new  milk  from  the 
cow ;  but  tell  him  be  careful  not  to  spill  a  drop  of  it,  or  he  '11  lose  me  for  ever, 
but  to  be  STOUT  AND  STRONG  OF  HEART  ;  and  when  he  hears  the  blast  rush  past  him, 
let  him  throw  it  upon  me,  so  that  it  may  drench  me  all  over,  but,  if  he  misses  me, 
he  '11  never  see  me  more.'  A  joyful  man  was  Kit  that  minute,  and  off  he  posted, 
and  told  it,  word  for  word,  to  the  husband,  who,  to  be  sure,  put  but  little  faith  in 
it,  yet  the  love  to  the  wife  made  him  try.  So,  to  make  all  sure,  he  milked  the 
cow  himself,  without  spilling  a  drop,  and  off  he  went  to  the  corn-rick,  very  much 
troubled  in  his  mind,  with  the  hope  of  recovering  his  bride,  the  doubts  as  to  the 
piper's  story,  and  the  fear  that  he  should  '  miss  drenching  her  and  then  lose  her 
for  ever.'  But  James  was  a  bold  man,  and  feared  nothing  else.  So  he  waited 
patiently  until  the  first  blast  of  wind  passed  him.  He  took  up  the  pail,  but  his 
heart  misgave  him,  and  he  laid  it  down  again.  Once  more  the  blast  came,  and 
more  strongly,  but  still  James  Deasy  was  only  half  a  man.  The  third  time  it 
came  furiously  upon  him ;  then  James  was  ready,  and  threw  every  drop  upon 
the  blast,  when,  all  at  once,  he  saw  his  wife  before  him,  as  plainly  as  when  she 
stood  beside  the  priest ;  and  he  clasped  his  arms  about  her,  while  a  loud  whirl- 
ing tempest — full  of  the  good  people — came  all  around  them.  But  she  was  safe 
from  harm,  and  they  returned  smiling  to  her  father's  cottage. 

"  No  one  but  a  mother  can  tell  Biddy  Mahony's  joy  to  see  her  child  come  back 
to  her  again.     And  the  evening  of  that  day  saw  happiness  returned  to  Jerry's 


220  OLD    FRANK. 

cottage,  where  the  piper  had  his  old  seat,  in  the  chimney-corner,  sung  many 
a  merry  song,  and  drank  a  double  portion  of  whiskey  to  the  health  of  the  bride- 
groom and  the  bride. 

"  But  James  Deasy,  when  he  came  in,  went  straight  to  the  coffin,  and,  in  the 
place  of  the  corpse,  he  saw  a  great  log  of  wood,  with  the  shroud  upon  it.  This 
he  quickly  put  upon  the  fire,  when  they  heard  a  loud  screech,  and  the  log  went 
up  the  chimney  with  a  noise  like  a  thunder-storm,  that  almost  shook  the  roof  off 
the  old  cabin.  The  neighbours  came  running  in  to  know  what  was  the  matter ; 
and  there  they  saw  James  Deasy,  and  Ellen  his  wife,  sitting  in  the  corner,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened ;  she  looking  as  beautiful,  and  he  as  happy,  as  when  Father 
Peter  blessed  them  both,  a  few  days  before. 

"  Some  months  had  now  passed  away,  and  Ellen  was  about  to  become  a 
mother,  when  she  called  her  husband  to  her  bed-side,  and  said,  '  James,  dear, 
happy  have  we  been,  and  happy  will  we  still  be  if  you  do  my  bidding ;  which 
is,  when  my  little  baby  is  born,  put  three  crosses  on  its  forehead,  and  three  on 
mine,  and  don't  leave  me  for  a  minute,  however  they  may  try  to  wile  you  away, 
for  the  fairies  will  be  after  the  both  of  us.'  Well,  James  never  left  her  bed-side, 
but  watched  her  night  and  day,  for  fear  the  fairies  should  be  waiting  to  take  off 
both  the  wife  and  the  child ;  which,  when  it  came,  was  a  glorious  boy.  But,  all 
at  once,  James  heard  a  scream  outside  the  door,  and  a  small  voice  calling  '  Ellen 
Deasy ;'  he  looked  round,  and  saw  the  latch  raised,  and  the  door  opening  gently, 
then  ran  towards  it,  and  pushed  it  to  violently,  when,  all  in  a  minute,  he  heard  a 
loud  laugh,  as  if  from  many  persons,  and,  when  he  looked  on  his  wife's  bed,  he 
saw  that  both  mother  and  child  were  dead.  James  remembered  the  crosses,  and 
remembered  that  his  wife  had  warned  him  to  let  nothing  tempt  him  from  her 
bed-side.  But  'twas  too  late,  they  were  both  gone,  and  James  Deasy  was 
indeed  a  wretched  man. 

"  They  kept  poor  Ellen  and  her  little  one  for  a  long  time  above  the  .ground, 
and  then  they  buried  them  both  in  the  churchyard.  But  James  could  not  rid 
himself  of  the  idea  that  the  bodies  were  not  those  of  his  wife  and  child,  so  he 
would  not  let  the  priest  say  mass  or  anything  over  them ;  a  thing  which  brought 
much  shame  and  scandal  upon  him.  But  he  had  his  own  reasons  for  it. 

"  Now,  it  happened,  one  morning,  that  James  Deasy  was  hoeing  his  little 
garden,  and  thinking,  as  he  did  every  day,  of  his  poor  Ellen,  that  he  had  lost 
nearly  a  twelvemonth,  when  his  hoe  struck  against  a  sod  as  green  as  ever  was 
spring  leaf,  although  his  spade  had  been  into  it  many  a  time,  and  it  had  been 
long  covered  with  black  clay.  All  of  a  sudden  he  heard  music  under  it — beau- 
tiful and  sweet  music,  such  as  he  had  never  heard  before.  He  remembered  his 
poor  wife's  warning  to  'be  stout  and  strong  of  heart,'  so  he  raised  up  the  sod, 
and  looked  down.  There  he  saw,  at  a  depth  that  seemed  many  miles  under- 
ground, a  number  of  little  people  dancing  most  merrily ;  they  were  all  dressed  in 
green  leaves,  and  had  fine  forms  and  faces ;  for,  to  his  great  wonder,  he  could 
distinguish  them  plainly,  although  they  were  so.  far  off.  He  thought  that  one  of 
the  little  people  resembled  his  dead  wife ;  and  he  knew  it  must  be  her,  when  he 


OLD   FRANK.  221 

heard  her  say,  '  to  the  corn-rick  at  midnight,'  while  the  rest  of  the  fairies  repeated 
her  words,  '  to  the  corn-rick  at  midnight ;'  and  then  the  music  ceased,  and  the 
ground  appeared  the  same  as  it  had  always  been ;  for  James  could  not  discover 
the  green  sod  he  had  just  raised.  The  more  he  thought  upon  the  words,  « to  the 
corn-rick  at  midnight,'  the  more  he  was  convinced  they  had  some  meaning,  and 
that  they  were  addressed  to  him.  So  he  waited  impatiently  till  the  night  came, 
and  went  off  to  the  appointed  place. 

"  Now,  the  green  island  was  well  known  over  all  the  country  as  the  pet  of  the 
fairies.  There  he  waited  till  he  heard  the  sound  of  the  merry  pipes,  and  saw  a 
long  train  coming  along  the  path.  He  stood  quite  quiet,  as  if  he  was  minding 
nothing  at  all  but  the  road-stones  he  pretended  to  be  breaking,  until  the  whole  of 
the  crowd  had  passed  him  ;  when  up  from  the  ground  starts  James,  seizes  the 
last  woman  of  the  group,  tears  off  the  cloak  from  the  shoulders,  signs  three 
crosses  on  the  brow,  snatches  the  child,  and  does  the  same  to  it,  when,  lo  and 
behold !  his  own  wife,  Ellen  Deasy,  on  her  knees  before  him,  and  his  own  beau- 
tiful little  baby  in  her  arms !  The  sign  of  the  cross  had  driven  all  the  fairies 
away,  and,  safe  and  sound,  James,  and  Ellen,  and  their  little  one,  returned 
to  their  cottage,  and  never  more  was  the  life  of  either  disturbed  by  the  good 
people. 

"  They  are  still  living  in  Dumraghodooly,  and  James  is  ever  and  always  ready 
to  tell  his  story  over  a  glass  of  whiskey  punch ;  but  no  inducement  has  yet  pre- 
vailed on  Ellen  to  give  any  account  of  her  adventures  in  fairy-land." 

"  Oh,  Miss,  don't  laugh,"  Old  Frank  would  invariably  add — "  it 's  as  true  as 
I  'm  a  sinner,  and  it 's  bad  to  disbelieve  the  fairies.  Sure  I  was  an  unbeliever 
once  myself,  and  this  was  my  punishment — one  of  their  arrows  right  through 
the  flat  o'  my  hand  ;  I  shall  carry  the  mark  to  my  grave.  Come,  Miss,  it 's  time 
to  go  home ; — bad  luck  to  the  dog  !  Joss,  where 's  Rover  ? — Rover !  Oh,  that 
young  dog  wants'  as  much  attindance  as  a  Mullenavat  pig  •!" 

"  How  is  that,  Frank  ?" 

"  Why,  Miss,  the  Mullenavat  people  are  Munster,  ye  know,  and  quite  inferior 
to  the  Wexfordians,  and  depind  on  the  pig  to  pay  the  rint,  and,  on  that  account, 
trate  him  with  all  the  respect  possible — why  not  ? — and  so  they  pick  out  the  big 
pratees  for  the  pig,  and  ate  the  little  ones  themselves ;  and  they  give  the  pig  the 
clane  straw,  and  sleep  themselves  in  the  dirty ;  and  they  give  the  pig  the  candle 
to  go  to  bed  wid,  and  go  to  bed  themselves  in  the  dark." 

"  And  is  that  true,  Frank  ?" 

"  As  gospel,  Miss ;  upon  my  word  it  is.  Here,  Rover  ! — the  only  way  to 
steady  that  dog  will  be  to  hang  him.  Rover — Rover !" 

Frank  delighted  in  telling  stories  'of  the  rebellion,  but  he  left  it  to  others  to 
recount  what  true  and  faithful  service  he  had  rendered  his  master  and  mistress 
in  that  perilous  time ;  and  they  were  nothing  loath  to  do  him  ample  justice.  I 
have  often  heard  how  he  buried  the  best  old  wine  in  the  asparagus  beds,  to  save 
it  from  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  rebels ;  and  how  he  concealed  his  favourite 
horses  in  the  hen  and  turkey-houses ;  and  how,  at  the  risk  of  his  life,  he  carried  9 


222  OLD   FRANK. 

forged  older  to  General  Roche,  who  commanded  the  rebel  forces  in  the  town 
of  Wexford ;  which  order  purported  to  come  from  another  rebel  chief,  and  de- 
manded the  instant  freedom  of  his  master,  whose  life  was  thus  preserved. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1798,  that  my  grandfather,  who  had  been,  for  a  few 
days,  in  Dublin,  on  business  of  importance,  embarked  with  his  constant  attendant, 
Frank,  on  board  a  small  Wexford  trading  vessel.  Intelligence  had  reached  them 
of  the  disturbed  state  of  the  country ;  and,  as  land  travelling  was  unsafe,  the 
"  boat"  was  engaged  to  convey  them  direct  to  the  Bay  of  Bannow. 

As  they  passed  Dalkey  Isle,  and  coasted  along  the  beautiful  shores  of  Wick- 
low,  glowing  in  the  full  richness  of  summer,  the  sea-breeze  tempering  the  fervid 
heat  with  its  invigorating  freshness,  my  grandfather  thought  he  had  never  seen 
the  country  look  so  tranquil  or  so  happy ;  the  lowing  of  cattle,  the  bleating  of 
sheep,  the  cooing  of  the  wood-pigeon,  even  the  subdued  warblings  of  the  forest 
birds,  were  heard  on  board  their  light  bark ;  but  when  the  day  passed,  and  the 
night  darkened,  unusual  fires  sparkled  on  the  hills ;  and,  along  the  shore,  lights 
would  blaze  for  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly  disappear.  The  anxiety  of  both 
master  and  servant  to  arrive  at  home  was  intense,  and  they  were  much  pleased 
to  perceive,  through  the  grey  mist  of  the  succeeding  morning,  the  spire  of  Wex- 
ford Church.  As  the  day  advanced,  Mr. distinctly  saw  green  flags  float- 
ing from  the  masts  of  the  several  vessels  in  the  harbour. 

"  We  must  sport  one  too,  sir,"  said  Rawson,  the  captain  of  the  brig ;  "  if  we 
do  not,  they  will  board  us."  He  unfurled  his  flag  immediately,  after  which, 
Frank  went  off  deck  into  the  cabin,  and  slyly  took  out  his  master's  pistols 
from  his  portmanteau ;  he  then  (as  he  subsequently  stated),  poured  a  little  water 
into  the  pans  of  a  fowling-piece,  a  blunderbuss,  and  other  fire-arms,  that  he  had 
perceived  lying  under  some  coiled  rope  and  canvass  sacks.  The  fact  was,  he 
had  ascertained,  by  overhearing  some  conversation  between  the  captain  and 
one  of  his  crew,  that  Rawson  was  a  United  Irishman,  and  one  in  no  way  to  be 
trusted.  He  then  crept  on  deck,  and  placed  himself  beside  his  master's  elbow. 
My  grandfather  kept  his  eye  steadily  fixed  on  Rawson's  movements ;  but,  to  say 
the  truth,  if  he  had  been  tacking  for  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  he  could  hardly  have 
discovered  it,  being  utterly  ignorant  of  all  naval  tactics. ' 

The  channel  into  the  harbour  of  Wexford  is  very  narrow ;  nor  was  it  until 

the  prow  of  the  vessel  was  passing  between  the  two  embankments,  Mr. 

observed  that  Rawson,  instead  of  steering  for  Carnsore  Point,  was  making  direct 
for  the  town.  He  instantly  sprang  at  the  captain,  who  was  at  the  helm,  and 
seized  him  by  the  throat ;  while  Frank,  nothing  loath,  presented  a  pistol  to  his 
head,  swore  vehemently  that,  if  he  did  not  tack  about,  he  would  throw  him  over- 
board. Rawson,  who  was  a  man  of  great  bodily  strength,  drew  a  pistol  from 
his  bosom ;  it  missed  fire ;  but,  at  the  moment  when  my  grandfather  had  over- 
powered his  antagonist,  he  received  a  blow  on  the  head  from  Frank ;  he  was 
almost  stunned,  staggered  a  few  paces  forward,  and  fell.  At  that  instant,  two 
or  three  musket  balls  whizzed  past,  and  Frank  whispered — "  I  humbly  ax  yer 
honour's  pardon,  but  it  was  the  only  way  I  had  left,  to  make  yer  honour  get  out 


OLD   FRANK.  223 

of  the  way  of  three  blackguards  in  that  boat,  who  took  prime  aim,  and  would 
have  had  ye  down  as  clane  as  a  partridge,  but  for  my  taste  of  a  knock ;  the 
game 's  up  now,  but  that  bit  of  a  blow  wouldn't  hurt  a  pointer,  sir." 

In  another  instant  they  were  boarded  by  the  rebels,  and  Mr. was  soon 

bound  hand  and  foot.  He  would,  most  likely,  have  been  piked  on  the  spot,  but 
that  the  insurgents  were,  at  this  period,  anxious,  if  possible,  to  obtain  the  sanction 
and  assistance  of  some  of  the  leading  gentlemen  of  the  county.  They,  there- 
fore, secured  him,  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  escape,  and  Frank  was  suffered 
to  depart.  The  poor  man  arrived  at  Bannow  when  it  was  near  midnight,  and 
found  my  mother  and  grandmother  marking  the  minutes  by  their  tears.  The 
whole  country  was  in  a  state  of  open  insurrection ;  and,  although  they  had 
hitherto  been  treated  with  respect,  through  the  kind  interference  of  the  good 
priest  and  Captain  Andy,  yet  the  uncertain  fate  of  my  grandfather,  and  the  con- 
tinued stories  of  death  and  destruction  they  had  heard,  kept  them  in  perpetual 
agitation.  Frank's  account  was  not  likely  to  soothe  their  misery,  and  they  asked 
each  other  what  was  to  be  done,  without  receiving  consolation  from  any  plan 
that  was  suggested.  Captain  Andy  was  with  his  rebel  regiment  at  the  mountain 
of  Forth.  The  priest  had  gone,  it  was  supposed,  to  Ross.  What  plan  could  be 
adopted  ? — "  Frank,  can  you  not  devise  any  mode  ?" — Frank  coughed. — "  Can 
nothing  be  done  ?" — Frank  replied  to  this  question  by  asking  another :  "  Can  ye 
tell  me,  madam,  if  they  have  taken  Grey  Bess  for  the  devil's  service  yet?" — 
"She  was  in  the  stable  this  morning,  with  two  or  three  of  the  old  horses." — 
"  Hem  !  I  'm  glad  of  that,  I  '11  jist  step  out — I  wonder  they  passed  her ;  she  's  as 
fine  a  slug  of  a  mare  as  there 's  in  the  whole  county." 

The  ladies  thought  Frank's  attention  to  his  quadrupeds  ill-timed,  but  he  went 
his  way ;  and,  first  concealing  the  carriage-horses  in  the  fowl-houses,  mounted 
Grey  Bess,  whose  strong,  well-made  limbs  merited  the  encomium  he  had  passed 
on  her,  and,  without  imparting  his  intention  even  to  his  fellow-servants,  set  off 
at  a  brisk  trot  to  the  mountain  of  Forth.  Arrived  at  the  encampment,  he  soon 
found  out  his  friend  Andy,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  they  were  in  close  conversa- 
tion at  a  little  distance  from  the  mass  of  the  people,  who  were  either  sleeping, 
drinking,  or  singing,  in  scattered  groups  over  the  mountain,  canopied  by  the  clear, 
moonlit  sky.  "  We  must  get  him  off,  Frank  ;  General  Roche  is  in  command — 
yet  I  don't  know  how  !  Can  you  write  ?" — "  Is  it  me  ?"  replied  Frank ;  "  not  I 
— can  you  ?"  "  No ;  an  order  from  General  Keough  would  do  it,  but  he  's  for 
making  a  bonfire  of  the  town." 

"  The  baste !"  exclaimed  Frank,  "  would  there  be  any  sin  in  jist  signing  his 
name  to  a  little  taste  of  an  order  to  General  Roche,  to  let  hin  go  free  on  parti- 
cular business,  to  be  returned  when  called  for  ?  If  we  had  him  safe  in  Bannow, 
't  would  be  asy  enough  to  hide  him  away  in  an  ould  cave,  or.  castle,  or  cask,  or 
ship  him  off,  like  a  sack  of  pratees,  to  Wales.  Where  there 's  a  will  there 's  a 
way ;  but  he  's  clane  gone  if  he  remains  in  Wexford.  Is  Father  Mike  here  ?" 
Andy  bent  his  thumb  back  to  intimate  that  he  was  in  the  camp.  "  I  thought  so 
— God  be  wid  ould  times !  he  '11  never  forget  my  mistress's  attintion  to  him,  and 


224  OLD   PRANK. 

she  an  Englishwoman,  let  alone  my  master's.     If  ye  see  a  man  an'  his  bit  of  a 
wife  go  p?ist  in  the  morning  on  Grey  Bess,  bathershin — God  be  wid  ye !"  and 
Frank  went  off  to  seek  the  priest.     He  was  easily  found,  and  soon  understood ' 
what  Frank  wanted. 

"  My  simple  order  would  be  of  no  use,  Frank,  for  they  think  me  faithless 
enough,  because  I  cannot  spill  blood — blood  of  the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty. 
General  Keough's  would  do  it ;"  the  kind  hearted-man  paused  :  "  every  impri- 
soned Protestant  will,  I  know,  suffer  before  to-morrow  night." 

"  My  poor  master,  sir,  and  mistress ! — I  '11  tell  ye  what,  if  yer  reverence  will 
jist  give  me  the  scrapeen  of  an  order,  who  '11  know  ye  iver  wrote  it  ? — and  sure 
it's  I  that  'ud  write  it  in  the  crack  of  a  whip,  if  I  knew  how.  Oh,  sir,  think  of 
all  the  good  they  did  the  poor  Catholics  in  the  hard  winter !" 

Father  Mike  hesitated  no  longer,  drew  from  his  pocket  a  little  inkhorn,  and 
wrote  the  order  on  the  top  of  Frank's  hat,  the  moon  shining  brightly  on  them  at 
the  time. 

Away  went  Frank  and  Grey  Bess,  into  Wexford,  and  the  day  had  dawned  by 
the  time  he  arrived  at  the  Court-house.  He  unhesitatingly  presented  his  order, 
and  my  grandfather  was  much  delighted  to  find  himself  at  liberty. 

"  I  wonder  the  General  wrote,"  said  the  man  who  let  him  out,  "  for  he  '11  be  in 
Wexford  himself  in  an  hour !" 

This  intelligence  alarmed  Frank  much,  and  he  hurried  his  master  to  a  dwelling, 
the  fidelity  of  whose  inmates  he  could  depend  on ;  it  belonged  to  his  uncle  Kit's 
third  daughter,  who  was  married  to  Mickey  Hayes,  the  grocer,  at  that  time 
Commissary-General  to  the  rebel  forces  quartered  in  Wexford.  There  Frank 
equipped  his  master  in  a  good  frieze  suit,  a  long  coat,  straw  hat — mounted  a 
bunch  of  laurel  at  one  side,  and  a  green  feather  at  the  other  and  presented  to 
him  a  sturdy  pike ;  he  then  arrayed  his  own  little  person  in  "  his  uncle  Kit's 
daughter's"  red  petticoat  and  hooded  cloak. 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  "  yer  honour  will  remember  that  yer  name  's  Pat  Ken- 
nesey,  and  that  ye  're  going  to  the  blessed  priest's  house,  and  that  I  'm  yer  wife 
— that  '11  ride  on  Grey  Bess  behind  ye." 

They  arrived  safely  at  Bannow;  and  my  grandfather  often  said — when  the 
troublesome  times  were  passed,  and  he  jested  at  the  remembrance  of  by-gone 
dangers — that,  three  times  within  forty-eight  hours,  Frank  saved  his  life — when 
he  damped  the  powder — knocked  him  down — and  became  his  wife. 

Honest  Frank's  services  did  not  go  unrewarded ;  he  was  suffered  to  indulge 
all  his  little  peculiarities,  without  let  or  hinderance,  and  to  be  as  cross  as  he 
pleased,  without  the  possibility  of  a  reprimand.  Although  an  ample  provision 
was  made  for  his  latter  days,  he  mourned  most  bitterly  our  coming  over  to  what 
he  always  designated  "  the  could-hearted  English  country ;"  and  his  affection 
was  so  strong,  that  he  would  have  left  his  children,  to  follow  us,  had  he  not  been 
(to  use  his  own  expression)  "  past  travelling,  at  eighty-five." 

Good  old  man !  I  well  remember  him  when  the  moment  of  parting  arrived, 
and  we  were  to  take  our  departure  for  "  the  great  metropolis  of  nations."  He 


OLD   FRANK.  225 

stood  foremost  of  a  troop  of  weeping  domestics ;  his  hat  held  reverentially  in 
his  withered  hand,  while  the  sleet  of  a  January  morning  mingled  with  his  grey 
hairs ;  tears  rolled  abundantly  down  his  wrinkled  cheeks ;  we  were  seated,  yet 
still  he  held  the  coach-door  open — "  God  bless  you  all ! — shut  the  door,  Frank," 
said  my  dear  grandfather,  almost  as  much  affected  as  his  faithful  servant. 
Frank  still  held  it,  cast  a  farewell  look  upon  us,  and  then,  turning  to  a  man  who 
was  close  to  him,  exclaimed,  "  You  do  it,  James ;  I  can't  close  the  door  that  shuts 

me  out  for  ever  from "  the  horses  went  on,  and  I  saw  my  kind  story-teller 

no  more. 

I  have  said  that  Frank  loved  his  horses ;  he  also  loved  the  old  family  carriage. 
And  when  we  left  the  country,  my  grandfather  presented  it  to  him,  thinking,  of 
course,  he  would  sell  it.  No  such  thing.  Frank  went  to  live  with  his  daughter, 
my  old  nurse,  at  the  village  of  Duncormuck ;  and  there  he  erected  a  spacious 
shed,  under  cover  of  which  he  deposited  his  favourite  chariot;  the  poor  old 
man's  delight  was  to  wheel  it  in  and  out.  Until  within  a  few  days  of  his  death, 
he  attended  to  it  with  the  most  scrupulous  exactness,  and  invariably  got  into  a 
passion  whenever  the  propriety  of  selling  it  was  hinted  at. 

"  Who  knows,"  he  would  say,  "  but  they  may  come  home  of  a  suddent  1 — and 
what  a  comfort  it  would  be  to  them,  to  find  the  ould  carriage,  and  ould  Frank, 
ready  for  sarvice !"  POOR  OLD  FRANK  ! 


MARY  EYAFS  DAUGHTER. 


NEVER  saw  any  beauty  in  her— that's  the  truth"— 
exclaimed  one  of  a  group  of  females,  who,  lounging 
around  a  cottage  door,  were  watching  the  progress 
of  a  young  woman  toiling  slowly  up  a  steep  hill,  and 
leading  by  the  hand  a  very  slight  child.  The  cottage 
was.  in  the  valley — and  the  traveller  must  have  passed 
the  group — for,  like  the  generality  of  Irish  dwellings, 
it  was  on  the  road-side. 

"  I  had  the  greatest  mind  in  the  world  to  ask  her 
how  she  had  the  impudence  to  wear  a  bright  goold 
ring  on  her  wedding  finger,  as  if  she  was  an  honest 
woman !"  said  another. 

"  And  she  asking  with  such  mock  modesty  for  a 
drink  of  water !     I  wonder  how  she  relishes  water 
after  the  fine  wines  she  got  used  to,"  suggested  a 
third. 
"  It  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  story  written  in  a  book,"  observed  the  first 


i.    O&y  ©MITE  08. 
E  Ferrett  &.  Co..  68  South  Fourth  St.  Philadelphia. 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER.  227 

speaker;  "how  she  left  the  Uphill  farm  (as  good  as  seven  years,  come  Easter,) 
arid  no  one  ever  knew  exactly  who  she  left  it  with — only  guessing  that  it  must 
be  one  of  the  sporting  squireens,  that  thronged  the  country  about  that  time. 
Since  the  ould  gentleman  at  the  Hall  died,  and  the  place  was  pulled  down,  we 
have  none  of  the  kind  going." 

"  Small  loss,"  was  the  reply;  "they  were  only  .good  at  divarsion — for  them- 
selves I  mean ;  there  was  no  use  in  them  at  all  at  all,  for  others." 

"  Did  you  see  how  white  her  hands  were  ?"  remarked  another.  "  Well,  I 
expect  there  will  be  murder  of  some  sort  done — for  her  father  will  never  own 
her— and  it 's  little  she  thinks  there 's  a  new  mother  to  meet  her.  I  hadn't  the 
heart  to  tell  her  her  own  was  dead ! — bad  as  she  is." 

"  Bad  as  who  is  ?"  exclaimed  a  clear,  but  aged  voice.  "  Who  is  bad,  girls, 
agra  1  It's  a  comfort  to  hear  of  bad  people,  so  it  is ;  it  makes  one  say — '  Well, 
the  saints  be  praised,  I  'm  not  as  bad  as  that,  any  how.' " 

"  Oh,  Daddy  Denny,  is  it  yourself  that 's  in  it  ?  Oh,  thin,  that 's  luck !"  they 
exclaimed  together.  "  Think  of  that,  now — and  we  never  to  see  you  coming, 
daddy,  honey !" 

"  How  could  you  see  me  coming,"  replied  the  stout  beggarman,  "  when  your 
backs  were  to  me  1" 

"  And  that 's  true,  Denny  dear ! — but  look,  daddy,  what  do  you  see  going  up 
the  hill?" 

"  Ay,  wisha  ! — how  do  I  know  ? — sure  I  'm  sand  blind,  any  way." 

"Don't  bother  us  —  your  eye's  as  clear  as  a  killing's  —  who  do  you  think 
it  is?" 

"  A  woman,  dear." 

"  Sure  we  know  that  —  what  else  ?" 

"  A  child,  my  darling." 

"  What  news  you  tell  us  —  but  who 's  the  woman,  and  who 's  the  child  ?" 

"  Ah,  then,  is  it  a  witch  ye  think  me  ?     How  can  I  tell  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  Mister  Phill  Ryan,  of  the  Uphill  farm  ?" 

"  Do  I  know  my  right  hand  ?" 

"  Did  you  know  his  wife  ?" 

"  The  Lord  be  good  to  her ! — Is  it  know  her  ? — the  holy  saints  make  her  bed 
in  heaven ! — I  never  say  a  prayer  for  myself  without  bringing  her  into  it.  Oh, 
she  was  the  darling,  with  the  open  hand :  there 's  few  like  her  now  by  the  road- 
side." 

"  Well,  daddy,  and  you  knew  her  daughter." 

"  I  did,  I  did,"  replied  the  old  man,  with  visible  emotion ;  "  I  did — the  poor 
darling — I  did,  God  help  me !  she's  heavier  on  my  heart,  this  many  a  day,  than 
all  my  sins — I  often  drame  of  her.  Oh,  Mary  Ryan,  dear,  I  wish  you  were  as 
near  all  hearts  as  you  are  to  mine !" 

"  She  may  be  near  enough  to  you,  then,  any  time  you  like,  for  the  future," 
replied  one  of  the  women,  "  for  there  she  goes." 


228  MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Where,  where  ?"  inquired  the  beggar  eagerly :  "  Oh,  as  you  hope  for  mercy, 
tell  me  where !" 

"  She 's  out  of  sight  now,"  answered  the  first  speaker ;  "  but  it  was  her  you 
saw  going  up  the  hill." 

"  And  did  none  of  you  tell  her  that  her  mother  was  dead  ?"  inquired  Denny. 

"  Why,  then,  what 's  come  to  you,  daddy  ?"  said  the  eldest :  "  my  father  would 
go  mad  if  he  thought  we  spoke  to  her." 

"  He  'd  do  no  such  thing — he  'd  go  with  her  himself  sooner  than  she  should 
go  alone.  Ah,  girls !  girls !  one  woman  should  never  lean  heavy  on  anothei . 
we  should  lave  judgment  to  God,  my  darlings,  and  mind  mercy,  for  we  all  want 
it,  girls."  The  old  man  grasped  his  stick  more  firmly  in  his  bony  hand,  and 
wiping  the  dew  from  his  brow,  which  fatigue  and  emotion  had  brought  there, 
he  proceeded  rapidly  up  the  hill. 

"  Stop,  daddy,  stop,  and  have  something  to  eat : — sure,  the  meal  father  pro- 
mised you  is  ready — and  you  said  you  'd  bring  us  word  of  Ellen  Mullins's  wed- 
ding, and  what  she  'd  on,  and  all." 

"  The  next  time,  the  next  time,"  answered  the  old  man,  without  turning  back. 

"  And  there 's  a  drop  of  something  in  the  black  bottle,"  shouted  another. 

"  Well !"  exclaimed  Stacey,  the  eldest  of  the  sisters,  "  that  bates  all :  I  never 
knew  daddy  refuse  the  bit  and  the  sup  before !  Mary  Ryan  always  had  the 
way  of  bewitching  the  men,  though,  to  be  sure,  now  she 's  both  old  and  ugly." 

"  She 's  just  your  age,"  said  Rose,  the  youngest  girl. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  was  the  query. 

"  Father  said  so." 

"  Father  knows  nothing  about  it,"  retorted  the  offended  elder ;  but  I  must 
leave  them  to  settle  a  question  the  most  difficult  to  determine  among  either 
women  or  men,  and  proceed  with  my  story.  It  is  already  known  that  Mary 
Ryan  had  left  her  father's  house — but  no  one  knew  with  whom — that  she 
was  returning  with  a  child  of  her  own,  and  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  her  mother 
was  dead,  and  her  father  again  married,  and  that  there  existed,  at  all  events, 
one  human  being  who  felt  interested  in  her  fate — although  he  was  only  old 
Dennis,  commonly  called  "Daddy  Denny"  —  as  notorious  a  beggarman  as  ever 
importuned  upon  the  Irish  highway.  Daddy  Denny  had  as' many  acquaintances 
in  Waterford  as  Reginald's  Tower,  and  in  Wexford,  as  the  Bridge ;  but  he 
only  visited  towns  occasionally,  loving  better  the  by-roads,  gentlemen's  kitchens, 
and  comfortable  farm-houses  of  Wexford  and  Wicklow — feeling  a  particular 
interest  in  shipwrecks,  and  the  waifs  and  strays  appertaining  thereunto ;  having 
an  active  mind  and  an  active  body,  as  far  as  walking  was  concerned ;  being  a 
devout  beadsman,  a  good  story-teller,  and  well  read  in  the  domestic  history  of 
every  house  in  what  he  called  his  three  native  counties — Waterford,  Wexford, 
and  Wicklow.  His  bold  spirit,  and  reputation  for  sanctity,  gave  him  an 
ascendency  over  the  poorer  class,  and  his  quaint  good-humour  caused  him  to 
be  more  than  tolerated  by  the  farmers  and  gentry. 

"It's  lead  that's  in  my  brogues  this  blessed  day!"  he  said  aloud,  as  he 


229 

mended  his  pace.  "  Holy  Mary  speed  me  !  Ah,  yah,  yah !  I  never  think  I  'm 
growing  old,  barring  when  I  have  something  good  to  do  in  a  hurry — the  poor 
girleen !  —  she  little  knows  what  I  know;"  and  on  he  trudged,  heartily  and 
hastily,  muttering  every  now  and  then,  according  to  his  custom,  about  what  he 
thought,  and  praying  for  what  he  desired.  Having  reached  the  top  of  the  hill 
which  had  been  already  climbed  by  Mary  Ryan — for  it  was  one  of  those  small 
perpendicular  ascents  that  are  so  common  in  the  county  of  Wicklow — Daddy 
Denny  saw,  at  a  glance  (notwithstanding  his  being  "  sand  blind"),  what  was 
passing  at  the  Uphill  farm,  which  lay  very  little  to  his  left ;  indeed,  if  he  had 
not  seen,  his  attention  would  have  been  arrested  by  the  voice  of  a  woman  in 
loud  anger.  A  group  of  young  alder  trees  overshadowed  the  dwelling,  which 
partook  more  of  the  nature  of  a  farm  than  a  cabin :  against  one  of  these,  which 
had  been  planted  by  her  father  at  her  birth,  Mary  Ryan — unable  to  support 
herself,  was  leaning,  in  hopeless  anguish — uttering  no  word,  shedding  no  tear — 
but  listening,  with  opened  eyes  and  gasping  lips,  to  the  vehement  abuse  poured 
upon  her  by  her  father's  wife.  Her  child,  a  pallid,  weary-looking  little  girl,  of 
about  six  years  old,  was  clinging  to  her  dress,  and  her  own  younger  sister — 
a  woman  in  appearance,  yet  cowed  into  subjection  by  her  step-mother — was 
standing  half  in,  half  out  of,  the  door,  not  knowing  how  to  act.  Mrs.  Ryan 
was  one  of  a  class  by  no  means  rare,  who  imagine  that  their  own  virtue  is  best 
evinced  by  condemning  with  the  utmost  violence,  every  woman  who  has 
suffered  under  the  supposition  of  swerving  from  the  right  path.  She  had 
known  Mary  in  girlhood ;  she  knew  how  beloved  she  had  been  by  the  mother 
to  whom  she  had  succeeded ;  she  saw  her  changed,  faded  and  in  despair ;  but, 
notwithstanding  all  this,  the  harsh  tones  of  her  voice  mingled  with  the  balmy 
breezes  of  a  May  evening : — 

"  Go  back  from  where  you  came — Father,  Moyra !  deed,  an  it 's  himself  that 's 
in  fine  health,  Lord  be  praised  !  —  dacent  man  —  and  has  enough  to  do  to  pro- 
vide for  dacent,  well-behaved  children,  without  having  shame,  and  shame's 
daughter,  to  pick  the  potatoes  God  sends ;  for — oh,  you  brazen  face  ! — take  yer 
brat  to  yer  mother's  grave,  and  cry  there  !"  Here  Mary's  sister  interposed,  but 
Daddy  Denny  could  not  hear  the  words.  "  If  you  touch  her,  or  go  near  her, 
you  shant  stay  here,  depend  upon  that !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ryan.  "  I  'm  yer 
father's  wife,  and  I  '11  have  none  like  her  to  curse  our  house ;  —  if  we  're  poor 
we  're  honest,  not  like  other  people." 

"  And  who  says  she 's  not  honest  ?"  said  the  stout  beggrarman,  interposing 
his  portly  person  between  Mrs.  Ryan  and  the  almost  unconscious  Mary. — 
"  Who  dares  to  say  it  ?  Fetch  yer  sister  a  drink  of  wather,  to  bring  her  to 
herself,  Anty,  this  minute.  I  'm  ashamed  of  yez  all,  so  I  am ;  I  never  heard 
tell  of  the  like  before,  in  my  own  three  counties !  Setting  a  case  she  had  been 
deluded — to  shame  I  mean — did  you  never  see  a  holy  picture  about  a  prodigal's 
return  ?  Why,  Mrs.  Ryan,  the  print  of  it  is  hanging  against  yer  own  wall,  the 
father  houlding  out  his  arms,  and  the  calf — red  and  white,  and  fat  —  standing 
ready  for  killing ;  and  yet  ye  see  the  craythur  dying  upon  these  stones,  and 


230 

don't  lift  her  up!  Ah,  yah!  Mary,  mavourneen,  asthore,  a  machree!  ye've 
supped  sorrow  sure  enough,  a  lannan ;  but  I  know  my  own  know,  a'coushla : 
and  I  tell  you"  he  continued,  while,  kneeling  by  Mary's  side,  he  supported  her 
on  his  arm — "  I  tell  you,  and  call  the  Almighty,  the  blessed  Virgin,  and  all  the 
holy  saints  of  heaven,  to  witness  that  she  who  rests  on  me  now,  in  a  dead  faint 
— I  tell  you  ajl — that,  though  foolish  in  what  she  did,  she 's  freer  from  sin  than 
e'er  a  one  here,  barring  her  own  child — don't  cry,  my  pet,  your  mammy's  only 
in  a  faint,  my  bird.  Here !" — he  continued,  as  the  farmer  himself,  unconscious 
of  what  was  going  on,  leaped  heavily  over  the  ditch — "  here  !  look  here,  sir,  if 
you  plaze ;  and  may  the  Almighty,  that  stands  the  innocent's  frind,  turn  yer 
heart  to  yer  own  flesh  and  blood !" 

James  Ryan  walked  to  where  his  daughter  was  still  supported  by  Dennis — 
his  wife  hung  back,  for  she  did  not  quite  like  to  encounter  the  beggarman's 
eloquence,  which  was  to  the  full  as  energetic  as  her  own,  when  excited.  Mary 
Ryan  was  very  like  her  mother ;  and  lying  pale  and  speechless — without  sense 
or  motion — the  resemblance  to  her  parent  on  her  death-bed  appealed  so  power- 
fully to  his  feelings,  that  he  raised  her  in  his  arms,  calling  upon  Dennis  to  ac- 
count for  her  appearance. 

"  I  wonder  at  you,  James !"  said  the  wife ;  "  don' t  you  see  it's  Mary 
whom  you  often  swore  should  never  break  the  daylight  at  your  door  ?  I  won- 
der at  you,  Denny,  to  be  taking  advantage  of  the  poor  man's  softness  and  inno- 
cence !  Get  up,  James ;  don't  be  demaning  yourself  to  the  like  of  her,  before 
your  honest  wife  and  children." 

James  Ryan  looked  bewildered;  but,  as  he  collected  his  scattered  thoughts, 
his  horror  of  his  daughter's  sin  overpowered  every  other  feeling. 

"  And  that 's  true,"  he  said ;  "  yet  she 's  so  like  her  mother  —  but  it 's  true, 
for  all  that.  She  left  us  of  her  own  accord ;  and  the  mother  that  bore  her  could 
find  no  place  but  the  grave  to  hide  her  sorrow  in.  She  broke  the  heart  of  her 
own  mother ;  and,  poor  as  I  am,  she  was  the  first  that  ever  brought  shame  on 
her  name." 

"Come  away,  come  away,  James,"  whispered  her  step-mother ; — "come  away, 
and  don't  be  letting  yourself  down  with  thinking  of  her." 

"  Let  me  alone,  woman !"  he  exclaimed,  rudely  shaking  off  her  hand : — "  let 
me  alone,  and  do  not  turn  your  tongue  on  her — mind  that.  Go  in,  children ;  I 
swore  she  should  never  darken  my  door ;  and  she  never  shall !"  He  rose  up, 
and  walked  steadily  towards  his  cottage ;  but,  before  he  had  time  to  enter  it,  the 
sturdy  beggar  interposed. 

"  Look  here,  James  Ryan,"  he  said ;  "  I  tell  you  what  I  told  her,  who,  I  trust 
to  the  Lord,  is  now  in  glory  —  I  said  to  her,  when  that  girl  left  your  house,  that 
sorrow  would  follow  her,  but  not  shame ;  —  I  tell  you,  that  she  has  never  known 
a  happy  hour  since ;  but  I  tell  you,  besides,  that  she  '11  be  righted  yet ;  and  that, 
though  the  sunshine  of  her  life  be  gone,  you  '11  be  proud  of  her  —  all  of  you  — 
proud  of  her,  and  proud  of  Mary  Ryan's  daughter.  I  tell  you  this  —  Mrs. 
Ryan,  ma'am  —  because  I  know  you  're  of  the  sort  that  would  give  to  get  agin , 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER.  231 

and  the  time  will  come  when  you  '11  be  glad,  may-be,  to  pick  her  potatoes,  and 
winnow  her  corn :  and  I  tell  it  to  you,  Mister  Ryan,  because  you  're  her  father, 
and  because  the  dread  of  her  shame  is  just  now  stronger  in  you  than  your  natu- 
ral love  —  that 's  why  I  do  it." 

"  Hear  the  big  beggarman !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ryan. 

"  Hearing  is  all  one  ever  got  by  being  a  beggarman  from  you,  any  way  !"  he 
answered,  sharply ;  "  but  it 's  the  man  of  the  house  I  'm  speaking  to ;  the  father 
of  her  who  lies  there  suffering  from  another's  sin,  and  not  sinning  herself." 

"You  speak  like  a  book,  Mister  Denny,  but  it's  no  good  to  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Ryan ;  "  don't  look  back  at  her,  James,  honey,  though,  sure  enough,  I  wouldn't 
be  where  I  am  but  for  her !  If  she  hadn't  broke  her  mother's  heart,  I  'd  never 
have  been  so  happy  as  to  be  your  wife."  Whether  or  not  this  artful  piece  of 
feminine  flattery  succeeded,  I  cannot  tell,  but  certainly  James  preceded  his  wife 
into  the  house,  and  she  shut  the  door,  pulling  the  latch-string  inside,  to  prevent 
it  being  opened. 

"  What  '11  I  do  with  her  at  all !"  soliloquized  Denny,  while  surveying  Mary 
Ryan  and  her  daughter  —  "  the  foolish  ould  nagur,  to  be  led  that  way  by  his 
young  slut  of  a  wife.  She  may  have  years  of  trial  still,  God  help  her !  And 
where  will  she  shelter  ?  Rouse  yerself,  Mary,  my  own  ould  heart's  darlint !  — 
rouse  yerself.  What 's  that  you  say  ?  —  that  you  murdered  your  mother,  jewel  ? 
Faix,  no,  'twas  the  will  of  God,  avourneen — nothing  passes  his  holy  will — rouse, 
darling,  and  see  if  ould  Daddy  Dinny  can't  find  you  a  night's  lodging  somewhere. 
Oh,  the  hearts  of  some  fathers — and  sisters  too. — to  see  how  that  young  clip  of 
a  sister  deserted  her  like  the  rest !  Where  will  I  take  her  to  ?  I  know,"  he 
said,  after  giving  his  head  one  of  those  earnest  scratches  which  seem  mysteri- 
ously to  revive  the  Irish  intellect — "  I  know ! — ould  Jenny  Harper,  the  barony 
Forth  woman,  whose  husband  was  killed  in  the  mines,  has  a  sore  heart  still,  and 
that  makes  a  feeling  one." 

And  the  daddy  fussed  and  talked,  and,  at  last,  succeeded  in  rousing  poor 
Mary  into  a  flood  of  tears,  while  her  child  kept  entreating  her  not  to  cry.  Still 
the  broken-hearted  creature  sat  before  her  father's  closed  door,  moaning — "  If 
he  would  only  forgive  me  —  only  forgive  me !"  The  night  dews  fell,  and  the 
moon  rose ;  and,  at  last,  the  kind-hearted  beggar  persuaded  her  to  accompany 
him  to  a  cabin  hard  by,  where  she  'd  be  sure  of  shelter.  Silence  not  being  one 
of  his  qualities,  he  muttered  and  jabbered  all  the  way,  like  most  great  talkers, 
expecting  no  reply ;  and  so  busy  was  he  with  his  own  thoughts  and  opinions, 
that  he  did  not  hear  the  light  foot  of  Anty  Ryan,  who  flung  her  arms  round  her 
sister's  neck,  and  was  sobbing  on  her  bosom.  "  Mary !  it 's  your  little  sister  that 
I  am,  and  dare  not  speak  to  you  before  her  —  your  dawshy  Anty,  agra! — don't 
take  on  too  much  about  our  mother ;  it  was  an  inward  complaint  she  had  for 
ever  so  long :  and  sure,  before  the  breath  was  out  of  her,  she  prayed  for  you 
with  all  her  heart  and  soul — yes,  she  forgave  you." 

"  But  she  thought  me  guilty  ?"  inquired  the  poor  creature,  breathlessly. 


232 

"  She  forgave  you,  sister  —  I  have  no  more  to  say ;  but  here,  don't  be  cast 
down — here 's  a  thrifle  I  saved — and  that  saving  doesn't  often  trouble  me — but 
I  did  save  a  few  shillings,  just  for  something — but  I  'd  rather  give  it  to  you,  my 
poor  Mary;  it 's  all  I  have.  Well,  if  you  won't  have  it,  the  child,  God  help  it, 
will!  I  'm  your  aunt,  honey ;  and,  while  you  're  Mary  Ryan's  daughter,  I  '11  love 
you,  my  poor  innocent  baby :  —  there,  God  be  with  you !  Daddy  will  tell  me 
where  you  '11  be.  I  must  run  back,  for  I  pulled  the  loose  stones  from  where  the 
window 's  to  be,  to  get  out." 

"  Why,  then,  that 's  right !"  exclaimed  Denny ;  "  and  a  good  husband  and 
soon  to  you,  my  brave  hearty  girl !  That's  the  rale  sort,  mother's  own  child — 
success — and  cross  of  Christ  about  us  !  that  nothing  may  cross  yer  path  worse 
than  a  beam  of  the  May  moon." 

Mary  Ryan  and  her  daughter  were,  within  an  hour  from  that  time,  estab- 
lished, quite  to  Daddy  Denny's  satisfaction,  in  the  cabin  of  the  Widow  Harper, 
a  miserable  dwelling  composed  of  turf  and  loose  stones,  and  consisting  only 
of  one  room ;  but  she  had  not  forgotten  the  neat  habits  of  her  childhood ; 
and,  small  and  poor  as  it  was,  the  floor  was  even  and  well  swept ;  the  chimney 
did  not  smoke :  and  the  bed  of  dried  heather  was  raised  from  the  floor  by 
some  long  boards,  and  covered  by  a  patch  quilt.  The  old  woman  showed 
every  attention  to  her  guests,  boiled  them  some  potatoes  for  supper,  and  after- 
wards bathed  their  feet  in  the  potato  water — taking  care  to  throw  it  out  when 
done  with,  that  it  might  not  be  converted  to  any  improper  use  by  the  fairies, 
who,  it  is  said,  have  a  great  fancy  for  floating  boats  upon  bath-water,  and  there- 
by sorely  bewildering  the  imaginations  of  those  who  sleep,  either  in  a  cabin  or 
a  palace. 

Denny  betook  himself  to  a  neighbour's  barn,  as  was  his  custom ;  and,  when 
he  reappeared  in  the  morning,  he  found  poor  Mary  Ryan  suffering  from  the 
rapid  approach  of  fever. 

"  I  well  know  the  sickness  that 's  coming  over  her,"  said  the  widow ;  "  and 
I  '11  tell  you  what,  daddy,  all  I  have  to  give  her  is  the  poor  bed  and  the  shelter 
— she 's  welcome  to  that — and  I  '11  take  a  turn  among  my  husband's  people  for 
a  couple  of  weeks ;  I  '11  bring  her  little  girl  with  me,  if  she  '11  come ;  and  the 
neighbours  won't  let  her  want  a  mouthful  through  the  window,  quite  convaynient. 
I  can't  stay  within  a  mile  of  a  fever  myself,  on  account  of  a  promise  I  made 
my  mother — and  she  on  her  death-bed — never  to  do  so ;  so  that 's  all  I  can  say, 
except  may  the  Lord  forgive  unnatural  relations !"  The  widow  strove  to  pre- 
vail on  the  child  to  accompany  her,  but  in  vain ;  the  little  creature  clung  to  her 
mother,  importuning  her  with  questions  of  when  would  she  go  home,  which  she 
had  not  the  power  to  answer. 

"  God  be  with  you,  Mrs.  Harper,  ma'am,"  exclaimed  Denny ;  "  you  Ve  done 
a  Christian  turn ;  and  if  there 's  virtue  in  prayers,  you  shall  have  them,  dear — 
may-be  I  won't  pepper  away  at  them  for  your  sake  !"  and  the  widow  cheerfully 
gave  up  her  dwelling  to  the  outcast  from  her  own  father's  house. 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER.  233 

"  The  neighbours"  did  watch — as  they  always  do;  and  the  beggarman  posi- 
tively insisted  upon  having  "  a  drop  of  wine,  and  a  grain  of  tea,"  from  the 
gentry,  "  for  the  sick  woman,  who  had  no  one  to  look  to  her,  only  God,  and  the 
poor." 

This  was  a  common  case  enough,  for,  as  I  have  often  said,  and  am  never 
tired  of  repeating,  the  Irish  peasant  is  rich  in  the  virtue  of  generosity ;  but  the 
care  and  tenderness — the  watchfulness  of  the  child  over  the  parent,  were  sub- 
jects of  astonishment  to  all  who  knew  it : — by  day  or  night  she  never  left  her 
mother's  presence  —  caring  for  her  wants,  and  sitting  quietly  upon  the  ground 
in  the  light  of  day,  or  the  darkness  of  night — her  large  lustrous  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  place  where  her  mother  lay.  Anty  Ryan,  and  Anty  Ryan's  sweetheart, 
had  contributed  largely  to  Mary's  recovery,  by  bringing  her  those  morsels  of 
luxury  which  the  rich  do  not  value,  and  which  were  given  to  Anty  by  a  kind 
lady  for  the  purpose.  The  watchful  child  knew  who  approached  by  the  step, 
and  her  thin  arm,  and  eager  hand,  were  immediately  thrust  through  what  the 
widow  had  pompously  designated — "  the  window ;"  and  the  food  placed  in  it, 
and  hallowed  by  a  blessing,  was  immediately  conveyed  to  her  suffering  parent. 
Mary  recovered.  Her  mysterious  absence  —  the  loudly  repeated  declarations 
of  daddy  (who  either  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  deep  in  her  secrets),  that  she  was 
innocent  of  shame — the  harshness  of  her  father,  the  benevolence  of  the  widow, 
and  the  extraordinary  conduct  of  the  child,  created  and  kept  alive  an  interest 
in  her  fate,  which  operated  in  her  favour.  When  she  was  able  to  creep  about 
in  the  sunshine,  and  enjoy  the  light  breeze  that  sports  amid  the  woods  and  glens 
of  all  beautiful  Wicklow,  she  was  assailed  by  numerous  questions  as  to  "Where 
she  had  been  living  ?"  "  Who  was  she  with  ?"  "  Was  she  going  back  ?"  "  Why 
did  she  leave  ?"  and  so  forth.  To  all  these  questions  she  meekly  replied,  "  I 
cannot  tell ;"  and  though  every  one  feared  "  she  had  been  very  wicked,"  they 
felt  for  the  poor,  shadowy,  worn-out  creature,  in  whose  behalf,  natural  instinct 
seemed  reversed ;  for,  strangely  enough,  her  little  girl  had  grown  into  her  pro- 
tector; and  the  mother  looked  to  the  child  for  her  small  store  of  comfort. 
Wonders  are  wonders  longer  in  the  country  than  in  the  town ;  but  Mary  Ryan 
continued  to  be  regarded  with  sympathy  long  after  astonishment  as  to  her  where- 
abouts, and  position,  had  ceased.  Although  three  years  had  elapsed  since  her 
reappearance,  she  still  sheltered  beneath  the  Widow  Harper's  roof,  knitting 
stockings  of  the  finest  wool,  which  were  sought  after  by  the  visitors  to  "  the 
Meeting  of  the  Waters,"  and  the  immediate  neighbourhood ;  and  her  daughter, 
who  had  none  of  the  mother's  timidity  in  her  composition,  would  offer  them  for 
sale.  She  had  become  most  useful  to  her  mother ;  and  the  good  widow,  and 
Daddy  Denny,  were  perpetually  on  the  watch  to  inform  her  how  her  zeal  and 
activity  might  be  turned  to  the  best  account. 

"Darling,  dear!  gather  a  handful  of  them  flaggers  —  the  blossoms,  I  mean, 

bind  them  with  the  fairy  flax,  and  be  ready  with  yer  courtesy  at  the  Avoca 

Hotel,  and  offer  them  to  the  ladies ;  the  quality,  darling,  will  be  soon  astir  to 

see  God's  works  below  and  above  the  earth ;  and  sling  a  pair  of  the  stockings 

30 


234  MARY    RYAN  S    DAUGHTER. 

on  yer  arm :  don't  take  any  notice  of  me  forenint  the  quality ;  it  will  do  you  no 
good  to  be  talking  with  the  big  beggarman  —  you  're  not  begging,  but  selling, 
avourneen  —  so  you  're  above  your  poor  daddy.  Hould  up  your  head  in  the 
world,  my  girleen ;  and,  above  all  things,  don't  take  common  charity ;  if  they 
give  you  a  penny,  have  something  to  give  them  for  it : — never  let  any  one  have 
to  say,  you  was  a  beggar,  avourneen !  mind  that."  Or  he  would  watch  her 
going  forth  writh  a  couple  of  baskets,  into  either  of  which  she  could  have 
almost  crept  herself,  her  abundant  hair  hanging  over  her  fawn-like  eyes,  when 
not  tossed  by  the  breeze ;  her  cloak,  more  an  incumbrance  than  a  protection, 
tucked  up  by  her  arms ;  and  her  small  bare  feet,  beautiful  in  shape  and  pro- 
portion, rendering  her  appearance  a  picture  worthy  the  painter's  skill.  "  Ye  're 
going  after  eggs,  now,  I  '11  go  bail ;  and  I  heard  them  say  at  the  wooden 
bridge,  that  Mary  Ryan's  daughter's  eggs  were  always  fresh ;  and,  better  than 
that,  the  farmers  would  trust  you  to  market  their  eggs  sooner  than  many  a 
grown  woman ;  and,  sure,  that  is  a  proud  hearing  for  your  mother ;"  and  then 
the  poor  mother's  eyes  would  fill  with  tears,  and  she  would  continue  her  mono- 
tonous occupation  —  knit,  knit,  knit  for  ever ;  walking,  sitting,  standing,  "  the 
needles"  were  never  out  of  her  hands.  As  the  girl  grew  stronger,  she  would 
cut  turf  for  their  fire,  and  do  so  with  an  energy  and  determination  that  aston- 
ished every  one. 

"  Ye  're  for  the  bog  to-day,  dear,"  the  gaberlunzie  said ;  "  and,  by  the  blessing 
of  God,  it  will  not  be  soft  weather ;  we  had  great  prayers  intirely  last  Sunday 
aginst  wet — the  poor  man's  foe ;  but,  in  troth,  jewel,  I  don't  like  to  see  you  work- 
ing for  evermore  so  cruel  hard,  and  you  so  young !" 

"  Then  come  and  help  me,  daddy,"  laughed  the  child. 

"  Ah,  darling !  I  own  to  it  —  I  'd  do  anything  rather  than  work ;  it  never 
came  natural  to  me.  Every  one  said  I  'd  take  to  it  as  I  grew  ould  and  steady  ; 
but,  jewel,  I  suppose  I  never  did  grow  steady,  for  though  I  grow  ould  I  like 
it  less  than  ever.  I  used  to  herd  sheep  on  the  mountains,  and  used  to  lie  and 
think  how  happy  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars  would  be,  travelling  —  it  was  their 
nature,  you  understand,  as  well  as  mine.  It  does  not  take  much  to  keep  an 
Irishman :  the  tongue  in  his  head  will  do  it,  without  his  hands ;  though  I  don't 
travel  much  now  —  no,  dear,  I'll  advise  you,  and  think  for  you  and  watch  for 
the  time ;  but  as  to  working,  it 's  too  late  in  the  day  for  me.  Bedad  !  the  Wick- 
low  hills  would  shout  with  wonder,  if  they  looked  down  on  Daddy  Denny  clamp- 
ing turf!" 

Sometimes  Mary  Ryan's  daughter  would  encounter  her  grandfather,  and 
then  her  eye  would  kindle,  and  her  cheek  flush ;  and  she  would  spring  out  of 
his  path  with  the  fleetness  of  a  wild  roe.  It  is  quite  impossible  to  describe 
the  tenderness  and  love  she  bore  her  mother ;  she  had  no  self  but  in  her ;  and 
the  more  feeble  Mary  Ryan  became,  the  more  devoted  grew  her  child.  Daddy 
Denny  was  the  only  one  who  knew  what  Mary's  position  really  was ;  but  he 
kept  it  a  profound  secret,  never  hinting  but  once,  to  the  priest's  housekeeper, 
as  he  was  waiting  to  see  his  reverence,  "  that  poor  Mary  Ryan  was  like  Hagai 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER.  235 

and  Abraham  in  the  picture,  only  much  worse  trated."  Denny  had  great 
Scripture  knowledge,  in  his  own  estimation,  and  was  frequently  known  to  argue 
thereon ;  and  the  poor  people,  not  understanding  what  he  said,  came  to  the  in- 
variable conclusion  that,  in  Denny's  particular  case,  "  the  poverty  had  spiled  a 
fine  priest." 

Days,  weeks,  months,  and  years,  went  by ;  and  Mary  Ryan's  daughter  was 
fast  merging  from  the  girl  into  the  woman.  She  had  gleaned  a  little  learning 
from  a  hedge  schoolmaster,  one  of  the  clever  political  old  fellows,  who,  in  by- 
gone times,  taught  the  "big  boys"  Law  and  Latin,  Politics  and  the  "  Read-a- 
made-aisy,"  in  the  same  breath.  He  usually  got  up,  every  day,  such  a  scene  as 
the  following : — "  Spell  tyrant,  James  Sullivan.  Now,  Jimmy,  hould  up  yer  head 
like  a  man,  to  show  ye  defy  it."  "  T-i — "  "  Och !  murder,  no.  What  spells 
Ty,  besides  T-i  ?'  "  T-n,  sir."  "  Och !  my,  ye  're  only  fit  for  a  slave,  Jimmy ; 
I  'm  sorry  for  ye,  you  poor  craythur.  Try  your  tongue  at  it,  little  Neddy." — 
"  T-y-r-a-n-t !"  spells  out  the  young  rogue,  his  bare  foot  placed  firmly  on  the 
damp  floor,  and  his  eyes  sparkling  with  triumph. 

"  There 's  my  haro  ! — take  the  top  of  the  class.  Oh  !  not  the  Latin  class,  my 
boy ;  you  're  not  up  to  that,  Neddy,  yet — but  above  Jimmy  Sullivan.  Now  for 
the  meaning :  who  was  a  tyrant  ?" 

"  Naro,"  replies  one. — "  Queen  Elizabeth,"  says  another. — "  Oliver  Crummel," 
shouts  a  third. — "  My  daddy's  landlord,"  observed  Neddy,  "  when  he  turned  us 
to  the  wide  world  to  starve !" 

"  That 's  bould  spoken,"  said  the  schoolmaster ;  "  I  see  you  understand  the 
word,  little  Neddy." 

"  I  have  good  right,  sir,"  answered  the  child. 

"  Spell  mother,  girls,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  who  gave  them,  as  he  stated, 
"  word  about,"  and  managed  to  appropriate  domestic  phrases  to  the  female  class. 
"  I  'm  not  in  two  syllables  yet,  sir,"  said  Mary  Ryan's  daughter,  upon  whom  the 
schoolmaster's  eye  fell. 

"  M-u-d — "  began  one  of  the  class. — "  No,  that  won't  do.  Sure  you  ought 
all  to  be  able  to  spell  it ;  for  sorra  a  one  that  does  not  know  what  it  is  to  have 
a  good  mother,  barring  one  or  two.  Mary  Wright,  poor  child !  your  mother's 
in  heaven  since  the  day  she  gave  you  to  a  broken-hearted  world;  and,  indeed, 
yours" — and  again  his  eye  fell  on  Mary  Ryan's  daughter — "  never  did  much  for 
you — so  I  '11  excuse  you." 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  growing  very  red,  "  I  '11  not  be  excused  for 
that  reason :  my  mother  did  the  best  she  could  for  me ;"  and — she  burst  into 
tears — and  then  as  suddenly  checked  her  emotion,  and  spelt  the  cherished  word 
correctly. 

"  From  that  hour  she  became  the  old  man's  beloved  pupil ;  and  he  suffered 
her  to  come  without  any  payment,  or  at  any  hour  she  could ;  and  often  would 
she  enter  his  lowly  dwelling  at  night,  with  a  long  piece  of  bog  wood,  or  a  far- 
thing candle,  and  crouch  at  his  feet  —  conning,  from  borrowed  and  half-torn 


236  MARY   RYANS   DAUGHTER. 

books,  the  lesson  which  he  not  only  heard,  but  assisted  her  to  learn — dismissing 
her  with  the  invariable  assurance  that  "  she  would  be  a  bright  girl  yet." 

Daddy  Denny  greatly  encouraged  this  love  of  learning.  He  brought  her  a 
slate  from  Wexford,  and  books  from  both  Arklow  and  Waterford — one  being 
the  "  Seven  Champions,"  and  the  other  "  Cinderella."  "  Learning,"  he  would 
tell  her,  "  is  better  than  house  and  land,  they  say ;  but  I  'm  sure  it 's  better  with 
the  house  and  land  than  without  it.  Who  knows  what  will  turn  up  yet,  if  the 
Lord  only  spares  poor  daddy  —  till  —  the  time  comes  ?  That 's  all  I  pray  for, 
jewel :  and  I  take  care  of  myself,  and  all  for  you ;  though  the  Lord  he  knows 
it 's  a  great  loss  to  me — the  wearing  brogues  I  mean — to  keep  the  could  from 
my  chest;  —  for,  when  I  attend  the  coaches,  the  vagabone  beggars  set  the 
quality  again  me,  shouting,  'What  does  he  want? — look  at  his  brogues;'  and 
then  they  call  me  '  brogey ;'  and  all  because  I  want  to  live  for  your  sake, 
agra!  —  for  I'm  almost  kilt  walking  the  world  for  divarshin,  until  it  has  turned 
into  hard  labour  on  me.  I  wish  we  could  rouse  your  mother,  Peggy,  honey ; 
but  she 's  sat  under  the  trouble  so  long,  that  I  'm  thinking  she  '11  a'most  miss  it, 
when  it  goes.  Ah,  yah  !  —  well,  it  is  a  weary  world  —  a  long,  weary  road,  to 
travel  from  one's  birth  to  one's  death:  —  an  unbareable  road,  if  a  poor  sinner 
dare  say  so  —  only  for  what  it  leads  to  —  the  heavenly  Jerusalem.  Oh!  that's 
great  glory  to  think  on;  and  them  that  raise  their  eyes  to  that,  won't  faint 
with  the  length  of  the  way.  It  raises  a  poor  man's  heart  to  think  that  a 
Lazarus  like  myself  may  lay  in  some  great  saint's  bosom.  Well,  dear,  you  're 
growing  to  be  a'most  a  woman,  Peggy;  and  don't  keep  company  with  any 
of  the  boys  about  the  place  —  sorra  a  one  of  them  -fit  for  you,  I  hope  you 
haven't  got  a  sweetheart  in  your  sweet  head,  jewel  1 — it 's  mighty  inconvanient 
—and " 

"  Oh,  daddy !  if  I  do  get  such  a  thing  into  my  head,  it 's  you  that  will  put  it 
there,  and  so  I  '11  tell  mother : — and  have  you  seen  my  hen,  with  eleven  chickens 
at  her  foot?  Mother  minds  them;  and  the  poor  widow  has  taken  ever  such 
pains  at  the  needles,  and  we  're  going  to  be  rich,  sure  enough — so  I  '11  hold  my 
head  as  high  as  you  please,  for  I  've  got  two  silver  testers  in  my  pocket ;  and 
I  '11  give  one  to  you,  Denny,  who  have  been  my  best  friend." 

The  old  man  took  the  little  coin,  and  deposited  it  in  one  of  his  numerous  pock- 
ets, muttering — "  I  '11  fasten  it  on  my  bades,  God  bless  her,  for  a  mimorial." 

"  There 's  one  thing  I  often  want  to  speak  about,  but  can't,  never,  to  her"  said 
the  girl,  "  because  it  almost  kills  her.  Do  you  know  anything  of  my  old  home 
and  my  father  ?" 

"Whisht,  a'coushla!  how  should  I  know  .anything?  You  never  saw  me 
there."  ' 

"No,  never  —  I  wish  I  could  forget  it,  but  I  can't.  I  remember  my  mother 
catching  me  out  of  my  sleep,  and  flying  from  the  house  like  mad ; — and  mind, 
too,  the  oaths  and  the  curses  that  followed  us.  Oh !  then,  I  was  glad  to  keep 
wandering  anywhere  from  him." 

"  Whisht,  avourneen !  it 's  foolish  to  give  sorrow  a  tongue.    What  do  1  know 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER.  237 

about  such  things  1  Hould  up  yer  head — sing  at  your  work — say  your  prayers 
— mind  your  mother — and,  as  the  schoolmaster  says,  Mary  Ryan's  daughter  will 
be  a  bright  girl  yet." 

Two  months  after  this  little  scene  had  passed,  the  widow,  on  waking  in  the 
morning,  found  that  Mary  Ryan  was  up  before  her ; — this  was  something  new. 
Peggy,  indeed,  was  always  a-foot  early — the  first  to  rise,  on  the  town-land ;  but 
Mary  was  feeble,  and  seldom  awoke  until  long  after  the  lark  had  finished  his 
matins.  .  For  a  moment  the  widow  thought  the  girl  had  grown  careless ;  the 
few  sods  of  turf  necessary  for  boiling  potatoes  were  there,  and  the  three-legged 
pot  was  hanging  over  them ;  but  the  fire,  so  seldom  extinguished  in  an  Irish 
cabin,  was  out ;  and  the  kitten,  singed  by  ijie  turf  ashes  from  black  to  red, 
was  seated  on  the  stone,  guiltless  of  pur  or  gambol,  and  looking  as  sullen  as 
possible. 

"  Where  are  they,  pusheen  ?"  said  the  widow,  who  would  rather  talk  to  a  kit- 
ten than  remain  silent.  "  Is  Peggy  gone  after  some  quality  speciments  for  the 
bride  and  groom  at  the  wooden  bridge  ? — but  where 's  Mary  Ryan  1  Ah !  then, 
don't  be  winkin'  that  way,  but  tell  us  the  news." 

"  Pusheen"  seemed  as  perplexed  as  her  mistress,  and  said  so  in  her  own 
way,  uttering  an  abrupt  mew,  and  then  humping  her  back  with  a  dissatisfied 
air.  The  morning  advanced,  but  no  Mary  returned ;  no  Peggy,  with  careful 
step  and  thoughtful  face,  swept  the  floor  that  day,  or  fed  the  hens,  who  looked 
about,  as  if  in  astonishment  at  not  receiving  their  usual  attention :  her  three 
books  were  on  the  poor  dresser ;  but  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  her  mother's 
cloak,  were  gone.  Before  night,  Mrs.  Harper  had  inquired  of  every  neighbour 
if  they  had  seen  her  friends  ?  No  one  had  seen  them :  but  a  "  wise  woman," 
who  had  been  called  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  attend  a  farmer's  wife,  had 
met  two  women  and  a  man,  as  she  jogged  double  on  the  farmer's  horse,  and 
was  fully  convinced  that  the  youngest  was  Mary  Ryan's  daughter.  The  coun- 
try people  were  both  astonished  and  alarmed  at  this  mysterious  disappearance ; 
and  her  father,  who  had  maintained  his  harsh  conduct  towards  them,  relented, 
when  it  was  too  late,  and  endeavoured  to  trace  them  in  every  way.  At  one 
time  he  thought  they  were  in  Enniscorthy ; — at  another,  in  Bray ; — but  still  he 
found  them  not.  Some  called  to  their  remembrance  that  they  had  seen  Daddy 
Denny  and  Mary  Ryan  in  close  conversation  several  times,  and  on  several  days 
previous  to  her  disappearance ; — but  then,  as  the  bluff  old  beadsman  was  in  the 
confidence  of  half  the  women  in  the  parish,  nothing  strange  was  thought  of  it 
at  the  time. 

Mrs.  Harper  was  in  a  state  of  distraction,  and  declared  to  every  one,  she 
would  travel  the  world  until  she  found  them.  They  had  replaced  what  was 
lost  to  her,  in  a  great  degree ;  and  while  the  helpless  nature  of  poor  Mary  worked 
upon  her  affections,  the  steady  industry  and  activity  of  the  daughter  command- 
ed her  respect. 

It  was  perfectly  true  that  the  beggarman  had  brought  information  to  Mary 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

Ryan  and  her  daughter,  by  which  they  were  induced  to  leave  the  roof  that  had 
so  long  sheltered  them. 

"  All  I  've  got  to  say  to  you,  jewel,  agra !"  he  said,  when  arranging  how 
they  were  to  "  steal  away"  from  Mrs.  Harper,  "  is,  tell  no  news,  give  no  infor- 
mation to  any  one ;  —  now,  just  mind  that :  —  and  then  we  can  let  them  know 
about  it  when  the  end  comes;  there's  no  use  in  rising  a  talk,  dear  —  it's  just 
like  rising  a  fog,  which  bothers  all  who  have  any  call  to  it  Avourneen,  there 's 
a  tower  o/  strength  and  a  rock  of  wisdom  in  a  silent  tongue !  I  blaze  out  a 
good  dale,  dear,  myself;  but  one  can  say  a  power  of  words,  without  any 
maning,  and  that 's  the  way  I  manage  the  country ;  and,  faix,  many  a  legis- 
lature, which  manes  a  law-maker,  ma'am,  would  give  his  two  born  eyes  for 
that  same  sacret.  Ah-yah-wisha !  he 's  a  wake-minded  man  that  can't  keep  his 
own  counsel." 

By  the  time  the  morning  dawned,  and  Mrs.  Harper  awoke,  the  trio  were  far 
on  their  journey,  and  in  a  different  direction  from  any  it  was  imagined  they  had 
taken. — They  agreed  to  keep  off  the  high  road  as  much  as  possible.  It  was 
strange  to  observe  how  Denny's  mendicant  propensities,  and  his  kind  heart,  were 
at  variance  when  they  reached  the  pretty  village  of  Newtown-Mount  Kennedy : 
the  Wexford  coach  was  just  passing  through,  and  it  was  evident  the  Daddy 
longed  to  prosecute  his  usual  attack  upon  the  pockets  of  the  passengers ;  yet  he 
was  loath  to  forsake  his  companions  for  the  purpose,  and  consoled  himself  with 
rejoicing  that  the  clumsy  efforts  of  the  clamorous  crew  had  not  procured  them 
a  single  penny. 

"  Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  "  it 's  wonderful  hard  to  soften  some  people's  hearts  ; 
they  have  no  feelin'  in  them  for  the  poor.  I  've  heard  a  gentleman  swear  he 
wouldn't  give  a  beggar-woman  a  farthing,  barring  she  had  some  fun  in  her, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  she  had  a  matter  of  six  soft  children  starving  to  death 
in  the  sight  of  her  eyes — it 's  hard  to  make  fun  out  of  starving  children !  The 
insides  and  the  outsides  must  have  different  tratement  altogether.  You  may 
pass  a  joke  with  the  outsides,  and  touch  them  up  with  a  story  betwixt  times ; 
but  seeing  it 's  mostly  ladies  and  gentlemen  that 's  insides,  they  must  be  handled 
like  a  nest  of  young  thrushes ;  no  matter  how  ould  they  are,  the  ladies  I  mean, 
— a  blessing  on  their  beauty  will  smoothen  all  their  frowns  away.  I  remember 
once,  a  very  stately  one  —  and  frosty-faced  she  was  —  an  ould  residenter  upon 
the  earth,  sure  enough  ;  —  well,  one  poor  innocent  young  woman  held  up  her 
baby  to  her,  and  bid  her  think  of  her  own  little  grandchildren  at  home.  Och ! 
that  turned  her  to  hard  vinegar !  Another  prayed  the  Lord  might  make  her  bed 
in  heaven.  Well,  that 's  foolish,  for  people  that  are  rich  and  ould  don't  like  to 
think  of  their  end — not  a  halfpenny  did  they  get ;  but,  at  last,  '  Sweet  lady,'  I 
says,  *  I  'm  thinking  of  the  little  sixpence  you  gave  me,  two  years  ago,  and 
God  bless  you  for  it'  *  That 's  a  lie,'  she  says,  '  for  I  never  gave  a  beggar  a 
sixpence  in  all  my  life.'  « Didn't  ye,  dear !'  I  says,  '  well,  then,  it  must  have 
been  Lady  Mary,  the  beauty  of  the  county,  and  it 's  no  wonder  I  'd  make  the 
mistake,  for  you're  as  like  as  two  peas  in  a  pod.'  I  saw  the  comers  of  her 
7 


239 

mouth  move ;  and  she  gives  me  a  penny !  If  ye  see  a  raw  college  boy,  with  a 
goold  band  to  his  cap,  sure  he  wants  to  be  thought  in  the  military  line ;  and 
ye  're  safe  in  calling  him  '  handsome  captain,'  or  '  noble  major.'  I  've  known 
a  shopboy  have  the  same  dress  outside  on  a  week's  holiday  to  his  people ; 
there's  no  harm  in  mistaking  every  spalpeen  you  meet  for  a  gentleman  — 
though,"  added  Denny,  thoughtfully,  "  it 's  not  pleasant  to  be  degrading  one's 
self,  if  one  could  help  it.  When  ye  see  a  lady,  with  little  children  about  her, 
praise  the  children ;  and  if  they  're  as  ugly  as  frogs,  lay  on  them  all  kinds  of 
angels ;  and  if  they  're  roaring  wicked,  with  ill-temper,  call  them  '  little  lambs ;' 
then,  if  she  has  any  motherly  feeling  about  her,  you  're  sure  of  a  tester :  if  ye 
see  a  couple  mighty  loving  together,  ye  may  bless  the  lady's  sweet  face ;  but 
it 's  hardly  sure,  for,  bedad  !  the  young  men  think  as  much  of  their  own  beauty 
— and  may-be  it 's  nothing  you  '11  get  for  your  trouble :  it 's  asy  enough  to  work 
the  money  out  of  any  pocket,  if  ye  can  understand  the  nature  of  the  body  that 
carries  it — that 's  where  the  knowledge  is  wanting.  Foreigners  are  mighty  soft 
at  first ;  and  there  used  to  be  grate  trade  intirely  at  the  Pigeon  House,  and 
about  there  —  women  with  twins  —  as  near  to  match  as  they  could  get  'em  — 
widows — deserted  wives,  and  fatherless  children — lame  men,  blind  men,  and  the 
falling  sickness ;  but  that 's  over  long  ago :  in  the  heart  of  the  war  I  made  a 
purty  penny  myself,  as  a  wounded  soldier,  with  a  plate  in  my  head  and  a  bad 
leg — anything  for  a  bit  of  bread  !  Sure  the  half  of  us  would  work  if  we  could 
get  it ;  and  the  Lord  above  knows  that  the  lies  we  tould  for  variety,  wreren't 
worse  than  the  truth  f — that  the  plain,  hard,  griping  starvation  was  with  us  at 
home  and  abroad,  by  night  and  by  day ; — that  was  true,  any  how ;  but  people 
had  heard  of  it  so  often,  they  did  not  like  to  be  bothered  with  it ;  so,  after  all 's 
said  and  done,  it  was  against  that  we  strove — God  help  us  and  forgive  us  the 
inventions — starvation  makes  one  te  wits  bright,  bedad  !  I  was  so  thin,  one  or 
two  of  the  hard  summers,  that  if  it  wasn't  that  I  had  the  wit  to  put  stones  in  my 
wallet,  I  'd  have  been  blown  away." 

I  wish  I  had  space  to  recount  all  Daddy  Denny's  stories.  Some  of  them 
could  not  fail  to  make  you  weep ;  and  his  transitions  from  humour  to  pathos 
were  truly  characteristic  of  his  calling.  There  are  many  who  cannot  fail  to 
remember  this  energetic,  yet  lazy  personage,  who  latterly  begged  from  habit, 
rather  than  necessity ;  and  who  was  at  all  times  trusty,  and  trusted  by  many 
of  his  superiors,  particularly  in  the  time  of  "  the  troubles,"  when,  I  have  been 
told,  he  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  rendered  humane  assistance  to  whoever 
needed  it. 

The  wanderers  had  journeyed  for  nearly  a  week,  when,  on  the  evening  of 
the  fifth  day  —  "  Do  you  know  where  you  are,  Peggy  ?"  inquired  Mary  Ryan 
of  her  daughter.  "  I  think  I  do,"  replied  the  girl ;  "  I  think  I  know  the  turn  of 
that  river — I  think — yes,  I  do  know  those  trees ;  that 's  just  the  way  the  crows 
used  to  be  flying,  with  the  same  noise — yes,  mother — though  I  never  looked  from 
Ihis  hill  before.  I  know  that  big  brick  house,  and  the  gate  that  I  used  to  be  climb- 


240  MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

ing,  but  never  could  swing  on.  Och !"  she  added,  with  an  involuntary  shudder, 
"  I  hope  we  ain't  going  to  live  there  again." 

"  Whisht,  honey !  whisht !"  ejaculated  the  beggarman ;  "  wishing  is  a  mighty 
foolish  thing  for  those  who  put  their  trust  in  God.  Sure  everything  will  turn 
out  well  to  those  who  have  faith,  dear, — if  not  well  for  this  world — well  for  the 
next.  I  '11  go  now  and  hear  the  news,  and  you  can  sit  here  with  yer  mother  till 
I  'm  back,  a'coushla,"  and  away  went  Denny  at  his  own  particular  and  profes- 
sional trot. 

Peggy  found  a  "  dry  ditch"  for  her  mother  to  rest  on ;  and,  having  rolled  her 
own  shawl  into  a  "  soft  sate,"  she  made  her  sit  upon  it,  placing  herself  higher 
up,  so  that  her  mother's  head  rested  in  her  lap.  The  worn-out  woman  did  not 
speak  a  word  for  more  than  an  hour ;  but  the  large  tears  kept  rolling  from  her 
eyes,  whilst  her  daughter  murmured,  every  now  and  then,  "  Mother,  avourneen ! 
don't  take  on  so — mother,  darlin',  you  're  wearin'  out  my  heart — mother,  honey, 
trust  in  the  Lord.  Oh,  what  will  I  do  at  all !  and  no  one  near  me — she  '11  die 
here  with  the  fair  trouble  o'  mind." 

"  Trouble  is  a  long  time  killin',  or  I  'd  have  been  dead  long  ago,"  replied  her 
mother,  to  whom  the  shedding  of  tears  had  been  a  relief — "  but  I  'm  easier  now, 
God  be  praised ;  and,  Peggy,  the  time  is  come  for  me,  your  mother,  to  humble 
myself  to  tell  you,  my  born  child,  the  whole  truth." 

"  Don't  distress  yerself,  darlin'  mother !  don't,  I  know  all  I  want  to  know,'' 
replied  the  girl,  with  a  trembling  voice ;  "  where 's  the  good  of  going  it  over  ?" 

"  You  know  nothing,  Peggy — how  should  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  bad  news  travels  with  hare's  feet,"  she  answered ;  "  but  don't,  mother ; 
I  'd  be  happier  not  to  hear  it  from  your  own  self;  because  I  '11  be  still  thinking, 
may-be,  the  half  was  lies." 

"  Peggy,  honey,  in  sight  of  his  house,  and  under  the  blessed  canopy  of  heaven 
— and  knowing  the  Almighty's  eyes  are  on  me — as  sure  as  all  this,  so  surely  am 
I  your  father's  wife !"  The  girl,  at  first,  made  no  reply,  but  clasped  her  hands 
around  her  parent's  neck,  and,  at  last,  said: — "  An'  why  didn't  you  tell  me  this 
before  ?  sure  if  it  was  a  sacret,  not  to  take  away  my  shame  would  I  own  it — 
only  just  for  inward  satisfaction  to  myself." 

'*  Why  you  never  let  on  to  me  you  were  reproached  with  it,  my  darling." 

"  No,  mother — how  could  I  ?  sure  it  isn't  easing  my  own  heart  by  chilling 
yours  I  'd  be  !  but  what  does  it  signify  ?  I  'm  able  for  the  world  now !  I  can 
look  an  honest  woman's  daughter  in  the  face ; — oh,  mother,  jewel,  and  I  to  doubt 
you !" 

"  You  must  hold  your  tongue  still,  Peggy,  until  I  give  you  leave  to  speak. 
Your  father,  dear,  was  above  me,  and  I  'd  never  have  known  him,  but  for  his 
coming  about  our  place  in  the  shooting  season.  My  father  and  mother  had 
fixed  on  one  in  my  own  line  of  life  for  me,  and  I  knew  I  'd  be  forced  to  marry 
him  if  I  stayed  at  home ;  and  all  the  time  my  heart's  whole  love  was  with  your 
father.  I  tried  to  hide  this  from  my  father  and  mother,  as  well  as  from  the 
young  man  I  loved ;  but,  och,  hone !  I  blinded  my  parents,  but  not  my  lover. 


MARY.  RYAN'F  DAUGHTER.  241 

I  was  proud  of  his  love — he  was  so  above  me — and  he  said  he  was  proud  of 
my  beauty  !  Well,  dear,  I  agreed  to  leave  my  parents,  as  he  promised  to  marry 
me ;  but  as  he  was  entirely  dependent  on  his  father,  he  book-swore  me  to  keep 
it  secret  from  man  and  mortal  till  his  father's  death.  I  was  satisfied,  and  went 
with  him  one  Sunday  evening — to  return  no  more :  he  eased  my  heart  with  a 
marriage ;  but  there  was  only  us  two  by,  and  the*  priest,  if  he  was  a  priest,  who 
said  the  words.  For  the  first  few  moaths  he  was  very  kind ;  and  though  I  was 
under  the  heaviest  shadow  that  can  fall  on  a  woman,  still  I  was  his  wife,  and  I 
bowed  down  under  it,  thankful  to  look  at  him — to  hear  him  speak  ;  though  his 
words  became  mixed  with  bitterness,  still  the  voice  was  his.  You  were  born ; 
and  what  was  such  joy  to  me,  was  sorrow  to  him :  his  father,  he  said,  grew 
frightened  for  fear  he  should  marry  me ;  and,  instead  of  being  allowed  to  sit 
at  his  table,  he  sent  me  to  the  kitchen,  there  to  bear  the  insults  of  an  old  bad 
woman,  whose  daughter  had  formerly  filled  my  place.  Oh,  my  darling  child ! 
may  the  Lord  preserve  you  from  the  double  death  of  finding  out,  bit  by  bit, 
that  what  you  loved  was  below  hate.  Still,  I  clung  to  him ;  I  longed  to  go 
home,  and  then  thought  how  I  had  no  home :  my  mother  was  kind,  but  I  had 
a  hard  father.  I  thought,  may-be,  that,  being  his  wife,  God  might  turn  his 
heart;  and  I  told  him  so,. once. — Oh!  the  cruelty  of  that  laugh,  when  he  an- 
swered that  I  was  a  fool,  and  dared  me  to  find  a  witness  for  what  had  passed 
between  us.  As  long  as  I  thought  to  do  him  good,  it  was  well  enough ;  but  I 
roused  against  this,  and  he  turned  us  from  his  door  with  curses  and  blows  — 
blows,  darlin',  that  fell  only  on  me.  I  thought  to  tell  his  father  the  truth ;  but 
even  if  I  hadn't  taken  the  oath,  sure  it  would  hurt  him,  and  not  have  served  you, 
for  I  wouldn't  be  believed :  since  then,  darlin',  he  openly  married  one  of  his  own 
rank,  for  his  father  died." 

"  And  why  did  we  come  here,  mother,  darlin' ;  and  what  has  Daddy  Denny 
to  do  with  us  ?"  asked  Peggy. 

**  There's  no  time  to  tell  that,"  interrupted  the  beggar,  who  had  approached 
without  being  observed — "  no  time ;  the  breath 's  in  him  still,  and  the  use  he 
made  of  it  for  the  last  twenty  minutes  is  to  rave  about  you ;  and  my  heart  aches 
for  the  poor  lady  who  is  patient  as  a  lamb,  and  begs,  for  God's  sake,  to  bring 
any  one  that  will  ease  his  mind — " 

"  Then  you  were  sent  for,  mother,  dear  ?"  inquired  the  poor  girl,  while  assist- 
ing her  to  rise.  "  Yes,  dear ;  Daddy  contrived  to  get  a  friend  of  his  own  into 
the  place,  and  when  your  father  got  this  mortal  sickness,  he  brought  me  to  be 
near,  thinking  that,  at  the  last,  he  might  do  us  justice." 

The  three  hurried  to  the  house,  which  was  full  of  lamentation  —  people  run- 
ning backward  and  forward,  crying  and  howling  "  for  the  master."  The  priest, 
who  had  administered  "  the  last  rites,"  was  standing  near  the  door,  reproving 
the  more  noisy.  Dennis  advanced  to  his  reverence,  and  falling  on  his  knees  to 
crave  his  blessing,  which  was  quickly  granted — told  him  that  "  the  woman  his 
honour  wanted  to  see  was  come  !"  "  Then  you  have  had  a  hand  in  this  ?"  said 
the  priest — "  but  so  best,  Denny ;  if  you  never  do  worse,  the  next  penance  I  give 


242  MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

you — (and  I  gave  you  one,  I  remember,  about  six  years  ago) — I  will  not  put  you 
to  much  trouble :  let  the  woman  come  in  ?" 

When  Mary  entered  the  chamber  of  death,  the  last  throes  of  dissolving  na- 
ture were  convulsing  the  frame  of  the  dying  man !  She  staggered  towards  the 
bed — from  which  the  lady  he  had  married,  had  been  forcibly  removed  —  and, 
falling  on  her  knees,  clasped  and  kissed  his  clammy  hand.  He  rallied,  and 
recognised  her ;  he  felt  her  hand,  finger  by  finger,  and  when  he  touched  the  ring 
he  half  rose  up  —  stammered  "  Mary  "  —  fell  back  —  and  his  spirit  departed. 
The  poor  woman  forgot  everything  save  the  love  of  her  early  days :  she  uttered 
no  complaint  of  his  cruelty  and  injustice,  but  she  wept  bitterly.  Not  so  Den- 
nis ;  he  had  expected  that  wrong  would  have  been  made  right — and  he  followed 
"his  reverence"  out  of  the  house;  when  every  beggar  in  the  district  crowded 
into  it,  expecting  the  tobacco  and  whiskey,  besides  other  good  cheer,  which  in 
these  days  accompanied  the  funerals  of  all  classes.  Whatever  his  conversation 
with  the  priest  may  have  been,  it  was  known  only  to  themselves,  but  it  had  the 
effect  of  sending  Denny  back  to  the  house,  where  he  mingled  among  the  crowd, 
seeking  Mary  Ryan,  or  her  daughter,  and  hoping  they  might  not  have  left  the 
house.  At  last  one  of  the  servants  told  him,  that  the  woman  the  "  poor  master 
called  for,"  had  fallen  in  a  fit,  that  she  had  carried  her  to  a  loft,  and  that,  for 
her  part,  she  didn't  think  "she  'd  live.  "  And  the  girl  ?"  She  knew  nothing 
about  her,  except  that  she  had  set  a  strange  girl  in  a  back  house  to  mind  the 
boilings,  or  there  'd  be  nothing  for  the  people  to  eat,  —  the  dwelling  was  so 
"  throng,"  and  would  be  worse  as  the  night  drew  on.  She  locked  her  in,  and 
•wouldn't  have  thought  of  her  for  another  hour  or  two,  but  for  him.  Dennis 
reconnoitred  through  a  window,  and,  finding  that  the  unwilling  watcher  was 
Mary's  daughter,  accomplished  her  liberation ;  and  having  first  charged  her 
on  no  account — no  matter  what  indignity  she  or  her  mother  suffered,  to  leave 
the  place  until  he  told  them  they  might  do  so,  he  sent  her  in  search  of  Mary 
Ryan.  After  much  delay  and  many  repulses,  Peggy  succeeded :  it  was  a 
miserable  loft,  in  a  distant  part  of  the  rambling  building,  where  she  had  been 
carried ;  the  slates  were  off  in  many  places,  and  the  wind  rushed  through  the 
shadowy  laths,  tumbling,  at  every  fresh  gust,  some  lump  of  mortar,  or  clatter- 
ing tile.  As  the  night  advanced,  the  voices  of  intoxicated  persons,  mingled 
into  one  great  discordant  noise,  ascended  to  where  the  heart-broken  girl  was 
chafing  her  mother's  hands ;  while  she  laid  across  her  feet  to  impart  a  portion 
of  her  young  warmth  to  her  parent's  weary  limbs.  She  had  arranged  some 
old  curtains  that  had  been  thrown  into  a  corner  to  decay,  into  a  tolerably  com- 
fortable bed,  and  moistened  her  lips  with  some  milk  which  the  servant  had 
given  her  for  herself;  her  consolation  was,  that  tiiere  they  were  left  to  them- 
selves; and,  from  behind  a  parapet,  she  could  see  all  that  passed  in  the  court- 
yard. The  moon  rose  to  its  full  height,  and  the  shadows  it  threw  upon  the 
floor  were,  she  thought,  very  terrible.  Once  a  huge  cat  peered  down  upon 
her  from  a  rafter,  and  then  scampered  away,  while  bits  of  the  old  roof  tumbled 
on  all  sides.  She  was  shivering  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  old  damp  hangings 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER.  243 

she  threw  over  her  shoulders,  seemed  to  make  her  still  more  cold ;  but  her 
mother  slept,  breathing  as  gently  as  a  sleeping  child  —  that,  at  least,  was  a 
consolation ;  if  it  had  not  increased  her  loneliness  the  more,  it  would  indeed 
have  made  her  heart  beat  with  thankfulness  and  joy.  She  knelt  softly  down 
by  her  mother's  side,  and,  after  repeating  her  prayers,  she  enumerated  to  her- 
self every  instance  she  had  ever  heard  of  GOD'S  watchful  care  by  night,  as 
well  as  by  day ;  this  strengthened  and  refreshed  her ;  and  yet  every  cloud  that 
passed  athwart  the  moon,  and  so  caused  a  partial  eclipse  to  the  small,  shiver- 
ing, chilly  light,  which  flickered  through  the  apertures,  made  her  repeat  the 
words  more  fervently :  sometimes  she  would  fix  her  eyes  on  a  bright  solitary 
star,  and  then  turn  them  on  her  mother,  who  looked,  in  the  dim  uncertain  light, 
so  deathly  pale,  that  the  girl  would  hold  in  her  own  breath  to  listen  for  the 
manifestation  that  she  was  still  in  life.  Suddenly  she  was  roused  from  a  nod- 
ding sleep,  by  the  fall  of  a  stone,  or  brick,  which  rattled  into  the  room,  followed 
by  a  heavy  grunting  sort  of  noise,  as  of  a  person  breathing  hard  after  violent 
exertion.  A  shriek  quivered  on  her  lip,  but  she  repressed  it,  and  immediately 
felt  the  wisdom  of  having  done  so.  "  Peg — Peggy,  avourneen,"  puffed  a  well- 
known  voice,  "  don't  be  frightened,  darlin' — it 's  me,  a'coushla  machree — ould 
Daddy  Denny — wait  till  I  catch  my  breath,  which  is  flying  from  me  like  wid- 
geon from  a  gun — och,  hone  !  —  I  'm  too  ould  for  climbing,  and  couldn't  have 
reached  you  at  all,  but  for  the  tough  bames  of  the  stable,  and  a  ladder,  dear, 
that  Peter  Mullowny's  houlding.  I  've  got  the  girl  of  the  house,  dear,  to  forget 
where  yez  are — and  so  keep  quiet  till  ye  're  wanted,  jewel ;  and  here 's  more 
than  you  '11  ait,  I  know,  for  the  three  days  of  the  wake  —  or  drink  aither,  — 
fresh  mate,  and  white  bread  of  your  own — father's,  I  mane ;  for,  poor  man  — 
God  be  good  to  him — he 's  to  the  fore  still,  and  a  fine  wake  as  ever  I  was  at, 
lashings  of  everything,  more  especially  people :  the  lady  has  a  fine  spirit  in  her 
— an' — but,  faix,  dear,  my  head's  bothered  somehow,  and  the  moon 's  turning 
round  on  me,  so  the  Lord  be  wid  yez — I  needn't  bid  ye  take  care  of  yer  mother 
— for  sure  it 's  Mary  Ryan's  daughter  ye  are — and  pray  for  your  sinful  soul — 
I  mean  my — hould  hard  and  fast,  Peter,  dear — for  somehow  both  myself  and 
the  ladder 's  mighty  unsteady." 

"The  girl  of  the  house"  did,  to  all  appearance,  forget  Mary  Ryan  and  her 
daughter ;  but  some  one,  every  morning,  placed  a  full  measure  of  milk  at  the 
rough  door  of  the  loft — a  measure  so  full,  that,  after  both  had  partaken  abun- 
dantly thereof,  they  had  enough  to  cause  the  great  cat,  which  had  so  frightened 
Mary,  to  purr  and  look  as  contented  and  cheerful  as  became  the  solidity  and 
respectability  of  his  ancient  race.  Still,  these  three  days  and  nights  passed  in 
all  the  aching  anxiety  of  knowing  nothing — and  hoping  and  fearing  all  things. 
At  last  the  wild,  yet  solemn  pageantry  was  over.  The  hearse,  the  mourners, 
the  priests,  the  people  departed.  Mary  Ryan  watched  from  the  broken  roof, 
the  road  it  took — the  same  road  she  and  her  child  had  traversed  in  years  long 
ago : — they  had  returned ;  but  he  who  drove  them  to  despair  would  return  no 
more.  Holy  masses  were  said  for  the  repose  of  his  soul  that  day,  but  none 


244  MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

prayed  as  fervently  for  his  eternal  repose  as  she  whose  heart  he  had  crushed 
almost  to  bursting. 

Peggy  wept  and  prayed  from  sympathy  with  her  mother,  but  she  could  hardly 
keep  down  the  spirit  of  strong  indignation  that  was  roused  by  a  full  sense  of  the 
injustice  they  had  sustained ;  and  no  Hart  ever  panted  for  the  water-brooks 
.more  than  did  her's  for  liberty. 

Before  the  funeral  was  .completely  out  of  sight,  the  only  noise  that  broke  upon 
the  stillness  of  the  house  was  the  rough  shutting-to  of  doors,  and  the  echo  of 
footsteps ;  at  last  "  the  girl  of  the  house "  made  her  appearance,  and  beckoning 
them  to  follow  down  a  half  ladder,  half  stair,  conducted  them  to  a  large  par- 
lour, from  which  the  remnants  of  the  entertainment  had  been  hastily  removed, 
and  thrust  them,  with  very  little  ceremony,  and  sundry  mutterings  of  "  being 
bothered  with  the  like,"  into  a  sort  of  ante-room  to  which  it  led.  The  door  hung 
loosely  on  its  hinges,  and  remained  unclosed.  Presently,  a  pale,  gentle-looking 
woman  entered  the  room,  and  her  widow's  dress  made  Mary's  heart  beat  more 
quickly;  she  was  followed  by  others,  who  had  returned  from  the  funeral,  and, 
in  a  short  time,  the  party  were  placed  round  the  table,  the  priest  being  seated 
at  the  widow's  right  hand,  while  the  attorney  of  the  next  town  intimated  his 
intention  of  reading  the  will  of  his  "  late  friend." 

He  read  and  read ;  but  all  that  Mary  Ryan  and  her  daughter  could  compre- 
hend was,  that  he  read  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again.  At  last — was  it 
— could  it  be  possible — were  they  awake?  Was  it  reality?  Could  he  who  had 
that  day  entered  the  cold  and  silent  grave — could  he  have  made  such  a  confes- 
sion? "Mary  Ryan — his  only  lawful  wife!"  and  such  and  such  lands  to  pass 
to  her  and  her  child  ! — "  thereby  hoping  to  make  atonement  for  his  sins."  Peg- 
gy felt  her  mother  sinking,  and  clasped  her  in  her  arms ;  after  this  all  was  con- 
fusion :  the  lady  who  had  been  so  grossly  deceived  was  carried  from  the  room 
totally  insensible ;  her  brother,  roused  at  such  indignity,  declared  the  man  must 
have  been  out  of  his  senses,  and  that  there  was  no  proof;  and  while  the  attor- 
ney avowed  the  man's  perfect  sanity,  the  priest  said  that,  without,  of  course, 
violating  the  sacredness  of  the  confessional,  there  was  proof,  —  and  Daddy 
Denny  was  brought  forward,  who  declared  he  had  witnessed  the  marriage,  by 
means  anything  but  straightforward  certainly ;  and  of  this  fact  even  Mary  Ryan 
was  not  aware  until  that  moment  Daddy  Denny  was  very  unwilling  to  be 
cross-questioned  on  the  subject,  but  was  obliged  to  submit ;  and  certainly  the 
evidence  was  very  clear,  even  according  to  his  own  showing — that  he  had  been 
courting  a  "responsible  woman" — the  servant  to  the  "couple  beggar" — who 
performed  the  hasty  ceremony,  and  that  she  had  "  put  him  in  press,"  in  a  corner 
cupboard,  to  be  out  of  the  way,  from  whence  he  saw  Mary  married.  After  all, 
the  woman  jilted  him ;  and,  at  any  other  time,  his  bitterness  on  the  subject 
-would  have  created  much  amusement.  Mary  and  her  daughter  had  come  forth 
in  the  melee,  and  if  a  doubt  had  existed  of  the  nobleness  of  Mary's  nature,  it 
would  have  vanished  before  the  earnestness  she  evinced  that  nothing  might  be 
done  to  hurt  the  poor  lady's  feelings. 


MARY  RYAN'S  DAUGHTER. 


245 


Daddy  Denny  always  stoutly  denied  that  he  knew  the  contents  of  the  will — 
how  should  he  ? — his  anxiety  to  keep  Mary  and  her  daughter  in  the  house,  be- 
ing (I  quote  his  own  words)  "  intirely  from  a  drame  he  had."  Be  that  as  it 
may ; — Peggy,  or,  as  she  was  called  on  the  evening  of  her  changed  fortunes, 
Miss  Margaret,  is  living  still,  and  often  speaks  to  him  she  loves  best  in  all  the 
world — her  husband — of  the  enduring  patience  and  virtue  of  her  mother,  who 
lived  meekly  and  prosperously  during  the  remainder  of  her  few  years,  and  died 
soon  after  her  daughter  became  a  wife. 

What  a  privilege  it  is  to  know  a  person  unspoiled  by  prosperity  !  —  Mary's 
daughter  is  one  of  these.  I  have  sat  with  her,  upon  her  mother's  grave,  and 
heard  her  story,  of  which  I  am  the  faithful  chronicler ;  and  at  that  time  the 
beggannan — then  hale  and  hearty  as  a  frosty  day — stood  beside  us ;  since  then 
he  has  fallen  asleep ;  but  I  well  remember  the  proud  expression  of  his  bright 
face,  as  he  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  Mary  Ryan's  daughter  ? 


WOOING  AND  WEDDING. 


T  was  a  rich  and  glowing  evening,  in  the  budding 
and  blossoming  month  of  May — the  sun  was  setting 
with  calm  magnificence  over  a  cultivated,  and  beau- 
tiful country,  and  there  was  nothing  to  obstruct  the 
view  of  his  farewell  glory,  except  the  high  and  ver- 
dant trees,  whose  leaves  were  hardly  moved  by  the 
passing  zephyr.  No  one  could  enjoy  so  happy  a 
scene  more  fervently  than  Helen  Gardiner— Helen, 
the  most  lovely  lass  in  the  whole  country — purely  and 
truly  lovely  was  she,  so  delicate,  so  graceful — the 
gracefulness  of  nature.  It  was  very  strange,  and  I 
never  could  account  for  it,  but  Helen  was  decidedly 
not  a  coquette;  how  she  came  to  avoid  it,  I  know 
not ;  it  is  a  fault  that  pretty  women  almost  univer- 
sally fall  into.  Yet  there  she  was,  the  second  daugh- 

(246) 


THE   WOOING   AND   WEDDING.  247 

ter  of  an  opulent  farmer,  in  her  twentieth  year — a  belle  and  a  beauty;  and, 
most  certainly,  she  never  flirted  one  single  bit  in  her  whole  life — good-tempered 
and  affable  withal — active  in  her  domestic  duties — exquisitely  neat  in  her  person 
(the  sure  index  of  a  well-regulated  mind),  and  exact  in  the  performance  of  her 
duty.  I  have  said  she  was  lovely,  and  it  is  most  true  ;  but  she  was  very  pale — 
it  was  seldom,  indeed,  that  the  faintest  colour  tinted  her  fair  cheek ;  her  hair 
was  of  a  deep  chestnut,  plainly  braided  across  a  well-formed  forehead,  and  con- 
fined in  a  large  knot,  or  sometimes  plait,  at  the  back  of  her  head  ;  her  eyes  were 
decidedly  beautiful,  like  two  large  dewy  violets — and  such  eyelashes ! — fancy 
her  other  features  as  harmonizing  with  her  placid  character — and  fancy  also  a 
dignified  figure,  and  then  exert  your  imagination  to  finish  the  picture,  and  behold 
our  rustic  favourite,  on  such  an  evening  as  I  have  described,  sitting  at  the  door 
of  a  happy  well-wooded  cottage  in  Somersetshire,  sometimes  looking  up  from 
her  occupation  (which,  by  the  way,  was  trimming  a  neat  straw  bonnet  with 
plain  green  riband),  to  glance  at  the  glorious  sky,  or,  more  frequently,  watching 
a  long  green  lane  which  led  to  the  house,  and  in  which  nothing  very  interesting 
appeared  to  an  ordinary  observer.  It  would  seem  that  not  many  visitors  came 
up  that  lonely  footway,  for  the  little  path  was  nearly  overgrown  by  long  grass. 
Yet,  true  it  is,  that  Helen  watched  it,  and  true,  also,  that  when  the  sound  of  two 
cheerful  voices  rang  upon  her  ear,  she  looked  no  more,  but  most  assiduously 
pinned  on  the  strings,  arranged  the  simple  bow,  and  concluded,  just  as  two  men 
emerged  from  under  the  overhanging  trees,  by  running  an  obstinate  corking-pin 
into  her  finger. 

"Helen,  why,  Helen?"  exclaimed  the  elder,  who  was  her  father;  "here's 
your  old  friend,  Mr.  Connor — to  be  sure,  we  are  all  glad  to  see  him." 

Helen  extended  her  hand  to  the  younger  of  the  party,  and  her  eyes  spoke  the 
welcome  which  her  tongue  refused.  She  led  the  way  into  her  cottage ;  her 
father  and  the  stranger  followed.  The  two  men  were  odd  contrasts ; — Gardiner 
was  a  perfect  picture  of  an  English  yeoman,  habited  in  a  clean  white  "  frock ;" 
his  round  and  florid  countenance  proclaiming  peace,  plenty,  and  much  pru- 
dence; and  his  hair,  which,  unthinned  by  time,  fell  over  his  movable  and 
wrinkled  .brow,  was  slightly  touched  by  gone-by  years.  "  Mr.  Connor"  (or  as 
he  was  called  in  his  own  land,  for  he  was  a  rale  Emeralder — "  Mark,  the  tra- 
veller"), was  a  fine,  handsome  fellow,  gifted  by  nature  with  an  animated  ex- 
pressive countenance,  and  manners  far  above  his  situation  in  life :  there  was 
a  mingling  both  of  wildness  and  tenderness  in  his  voice  and  address ;  and  his 
garments,  of  the  blended  costumes  of  both  countries,  had  a  picturesque  appear- 
ance to  English  eyes.  He  could  never  be  reconciled  to  smock-frocks,  to  which 
all  the  Irish  peasantry  have  a  decided  antipathy ;  but  he  had  discarded  knee- 
breeches  and  woollen  stockings,  and  wore  trowsers,  which  certainly  looked 
better  with  his  long  blue  coat ;  his  scarlet  waistcoat  was  "  spick  and  span  new," 
his  yellow  silk  neckerchief  tied  loosely,  so  as  to  display  his  fine  throat,  and  his 
smart  hat  so  much  on  one  side  of  his  thickly  curling  hair,  that  it  seemed  almost 
doubtful  if  it  could  retain  its  position.  "  Mark,  the  traveller,"  was  the  eldest  son 


248  THE  WOOING  AND  WEDDING. 

of  a  respectable  cattle-dealer,  and  frequently  visited  England  to  dispose  of  live 
stock,  whether  pigs,  cows,  or  sheep,  which,  of  course,  he  could  sell  more 
cheaply  than  English  farmers  could  rear  them.  He  had  long  known  Helen  and 
her  father,  and  had  loved  the  former  with  fervour  and  constancy.  She  loved 
him,  too,  silently  and  unchangingly ;  the  gracefulness  of  his  manners  first  at- 
tracted her  attention,  and  she  saw — or  what  even  with  a  sensible  girl  in  love,  is 
pretty  much  the  same  thing — she  fancied  she  saw — good  and  noble  qualities  to 
justify  her  attachment  Those  quiet,  pensive  sort  of  girls,  have  always  ten  times 
the  feeling  and  romance  of  your  sparkling,  giddy  gipsies ;  and  notwithstanding 
that  Helen  discharged  all  her  duties  as  usual,  and  no  common  observer  could 
have  perceived  any  alteration,  yet  her  heart  often  wandered  over  the  salt  sea, 
beat  at  the  sound  of  the  Irish  brogue,  and  silently  inquired  if,  indeed,  the  natives 
of  the  green  island  could  be  uncivilized  savages  1  She  had,  moreover,  a  very 
strong  passion  for  green,  and  it  was  actually  whispered  that  she  wore  in  her 
bosom,  a  shamrock  brooch,  carefully  concealed  by  the  folds  of  her  clear  white 
kerchief.  Her  elder  sister  had  been  a  wife,  a  mother,  and  a  widow,  within 
twelve  months,  and  resided  with  her  father  and  Helen ;  they  might  truly  be 
called  a  united,  contented  family ;  perhaps  Helen  was  somewhat  more  than 
contented,  as  she  prepared  the  simple  supper  for  their  visiter,  who  had  been 
some  days  expected,  and  who  sat  in  their  neat  little  parlour,  at  the  open  case- 
ment, into  which  early  roses,  and  the  slender  Persian  lilac,  were  flinging  perfume 
and  beauty ;  the  honest  farmer  puffing  away  at  his  long  white  pipe,  as  he  leaned 
half  out  on  the  painted  window-sill. 

"  I  'm  thinking,  Mr.  Conner,  ye  don't  use  such  long  pipes  as  these  uns,  in  your 
country  ?"  said  the  yeoman,  after  a  pause. 

"  Ye  may  say  that,  sure  enough  ; — we  brake  them  off  close  to  the  bowl — and 
thin  it  comes  hot  and  strong  to  us." 

"  Ye  're  very  fond  of  things  hot  and  strong  in  that  place,  Mister  Conner ;  but 
I  '11  do  you  the  justice  to  say,  I  never  saw  you  in  liquor  all  my  life,  though  I 
have  known  you  now  more  than  six  years." 

"  Nor  never  will,  sir,  I  hope  and  trust.  I  never  had  a  fancy  for  it,  nor  my 
father  before  me ;  which  was  a  powerful  blessing  to  the  entire  family,  seeing  it 
kept  us  out  o'  harm's  way." 

"  I  knew  I  had  something  particular  to  speak  to  you  about,"  resumed  the  old 
man.  "  Do  you  remember  the  last  lot  of  pigs  you  sold  me  ?" 

"  May-be  I  don't." 

"  That  means  I  do,  I  take  it,  in  English.  Well,  perhaps  you  recollect  one 
with  a  black  head — a  long-bodied  animal — strangely  made  about  the  shoulders  ?" 

"  Ough,  an'  it 's  I  remember  it,  the  quare  baste !  good  rason  have  I ;  with 
its  wigly-wagly  tail,  and  the  skreetches  of  it.  Sure,  because  ye  were  my  friend, 
I  warned  ye  to  have  nothing  to  say  to  her ;  and  you  ('cause,  ye  mind,  ye  said 
when  she  was  broadened  out,  she  would  make  good  bacon)  took  a  great  fancy 
to  her,  and  so  I  let  you  have  her,  a  dead  bargain." 


THE    WOOING   AND   WEDDING.  249 

"  Bargain,  indeed  !  she  would  eat  nothing  we  could  give  her,  and,  knowing 
she  was  Irish,  Helen  picked  the  potatoes,  mealy  ones,  and " 

Here  Mark  cast  a  look  of  indignation  at  his  host,  and  exclaimed — 

"  Well,  that  bates  Bannaher  !  Miss  Helen,  who 's  more  like  an  angel  than 
a  woman,  pick  potatoes  for  an  unmannerly  sort  of  a  pig  ;  a  Connaught  pig,  too, 
that  could  have  no  sort  of  manners !  Sure  I  ought  to  have  tould  ye,  sir,  the 
Connaught  chaps  (the  pigs  I  mane)  '11  never  eat  boiled  potatoes — the  unman- 
nerly toads,  it 's  just  like  them.  Well,  to  make  up  for  his  ignorance,  take  yer 
pick  out  of  the  drove  for  nothing,  and  welcome,  to-morrow,  and  I  '11  go  bail  not  a 
Connaught  pig  is  in  the  lot — not  a  squeak  did  they  give,  getting  on  board,  only 
all  quiet  and  civil  as  princes." 

"  Thank  ye,  that 's  honest,  and  more  than  honest,"  replied  the  farmer.  "  I 
have  no  objection  to  an  abatement — that 's  all  fair ;  but  to  take  the  pig  for 
nothing  is  what  I  won't  do ;  for  ye  see  fair  is  fair,  all  the  world  over." 

"  You.  '11  do  what  I  say,  master,  because  ye  're  an  old  friend  ;  and  be  in  no 
trouble  on  account  of  the  cost,  for  I  've  had  a  powerful  dale  of  luck  lately.  My 
mother's  uncle,  in  America,  is  dead,  and  left  a  dale  more  behind  than  'ill  bury 
him ;  a  good  seventy  a-piece  to  the  three  of  us — and  so,  before  I  came  this 
turn  to  England,  I  took  a  neat  bit  of  ground  on  my  own  account ;  and  have  as 
pretty  a  house  on  it  as  any  in  the  county,  for  the  size  of  it ;  three  nice  rooms, 
with  a  door  in  the  middle,  and  a  loft ;  it  was  built  for  a  steward's  lodge ;  and  a 
bawn  at  the  back,  with  every  convenience ;  and,  when  I  was  on  the  move,  I 
left  ten  pounds  o'  the  money  with  Matty,  my  youngest  brother,  to  have  the  room 
off  the  kitchen  boarded  for  a  parlour,  for  I  mean  to  have  it  the  very  morral  of 
an  English  cottage,  as  I  mean — if — if — I — can — to  have  an  English — girl  for  a 
a — a  wife." 

"  Well  done,  well  said,  Mister  Conner  ;  but  who  do  you  think  would  go  over 
with  you  to  that  unchristian  country,  where " 

"  I  ax  yer  pardon,  sir,  ye  're  under  a  mistake ;  there  are  as  good  Christians, 
and  Protestant  Christians,  too,  in  Ireland  as  in  England — (I  mean  no  offence) 
— and  with  such  as  fills  that  purse  (and  he  drew  from  his  bosom  a  long  leather 
bag,  and  flung  it  on  the  table),  and  such  a  boy  as  myself,  an  English  girl  may  be 
had,  Mister  Gardiner ;  though  (he  added,  in  a  subdued  tone)  the  one  my  heart  is 
set  upon  is  not  to  be  bought  with  silver  or  gould." 

"  Not  bought  with  silver  or  gold,  Mr.  Mark !  Well,  hang  it,  that 's  more  than 
I  'd  say  to  any  of  the  sex." 

"  You  wrong  them,  then,  sir ; — money 's  a  powerful  thing — but  look,  there  's 
some  of  them  (one  that  I  know  of  in  partickler),  so  pure  somehow — like  a  lily, 
for  all  the  world — that  a  heavy  sorrow  would  crush,  or  the  least  thing  in  life 
spot ;  and  nothing  could  buy  the  love  of  that  heart,  because,  as  well  as  I  can 
make  it  out,  it  has  more  of  heaven  than  earth  about  it." 

"No  one  can  make  you  Irishmen  out,"  retorted  the  farmer,  laughing:  "but 
may  I  ask  who  this  lily — this  delicate  flower,  is?" 

"  Is  it  who  it  is  ?"  replied  Mark  :  "  why,  then,  no,  one  but  yer  own  daughter 
32 


250  THE  WOOING  AND  WEDDING. 

Helen  Gardiner  by  name,  and  an  angel  by  nature  ;  and  now  the  murder 's  out," 
he  continued,  "  and  my  heart 's  a  dale  lighter." 

The  worthy  yeoman  put  down  his  pipe,  and  looked  at  Mark  Connor  with  a 
sort  of  stupid  astonishment ;  he  was  a  keen,  sensible  man,  shrewd  and  knowing 
in  matters  concerning  wheat,  rye,  oats,  and  all  manner  of  grain ;  the  best  judge 
of  horse-flesh  in  the  whole  county ;  and  such  a  cricketer !  such  an  eye  ! — could 
get  six,  or,  perhaps,  seven  notches  at  one  hit,  and  was,  even  then,  a  first-rate 
bowler ;  had,  moreover,  an  uncontaminated  affection  for  youthful  sports, 
marbles,  ball,  humming  and  spinning  tops ;  and  would  leave  his  pipe,  at  any 
time,  for  a  game  of  blind-man's  buff;  yet  it  was  certainly  true  that  the  idea  of 
Mark  Connor's  aspiring  to  the  station  of  his  son-in-law  never  once  entered  the 
honest  farmer's  head.  "  My  Helen !  Well,  Mister  Connor,  every  father,  that 
is,  every  man  who  has  the  feelings  of  a  father,  must  feel  as  a  compliment  an 
offer — I  mean  such  as  yours — and  I  take  it  very  sensible  that  you  have  men- 
tioned the  matter  to  me  first,  Mister  Mark,  because,  of  course,  I  must  know 
best  As  to  Helen,  poor  girl,  she  has  never  thought  about  anything  of  the 
sort ;  and,  indeed,  Mister  Connor,  although  I  highly  respect  you,  and  knew 
your  father  in  the  Bristol  Market,  an  honest  man  (though  an  Irishman)  as  any 
in  England,  and  know  you  to  be  a  Protestant,  and  all,  yet  I  must  say  my  girl 
is  very  dear  to  me,  and  I  should  not  like  to  trust — I  mean,  not  like  her  to  leave 
Old  England." 

Mark  Connor  was  not  much  discomfited  by  these  observations ;  he  pushed 
his  hair  back  from  his  forehead,  and  paused  a  moment  or  two ;  during  the  inter- 
val the  farmer  resumed  his  pipe,  and  puffed,  and  puffed. 

"  You  were  quite  right,  farmer,"  resumed  the  lover,  after  a  pause,  "  quite 
right  in  supposing  that  I  had  never  mentioned  matrimony  to  Miss  Helen,  but  ye 
see  I  mintioned " 

"What?" 

"  Why,  it  came  quite  natural  like,  the  least  taste  of  love ;  and  she  never  gain- 
said me,  though  she  listened  like  any  lamb." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Gardiner,  "  you  must  give  me  leave  to— almost  doubt 
you.  Now,"  he  continued,  seeing  that  Mark's  face  assumed  a  glowing  aspect, 
"  no  anger,  no  getting  into  a  passion  for  nothing — let  us  understand  each  other. 
Helen  is  my  child  ;  I  love  her  more  than  any  other  living  thing,  and  have  done 
so  ever  since  she,  my  wife,  whom  she  is  so  like,  was  taken  from  this  home  to 
one  she  was  better  suited  for.  She  was — "  John  Bull's  heart,  whatever  its 
casket  may  be,  retains  the  stamp  of  early  affection  longer  than  any  other  heart 
in  the  world,  and  the  feelings  of  the  honest  farmer  sent  some  big  tears  to  his 
eyes,  when  he  remembered  her  who  had  possessed  his  perfect  love  for  more 
than  thirty  years.  "  Forgive  me ;  if  you  love  Helen,  you  can  forgive  me,  for 
still  mourning  one  my  dear  girl  so  closely  resembles.  It  is  not  natural,  Mister 
Connor,  that  I  should  like  my  child  to  leave  me,  particularly  to  go  to  a  country 
of  which  I  have  been  told  much  evil ;  and,  had  Helen  never  heard  of  this,  I 
certainly  should  not  have  told  her ;  I  know  she  regards  you  as  a  friend — but 


THE  WOOING  AND  WEDDING.  25 1 

love,  believe  me,  is  out  of  the  question ;  however,  I  will  this  moment  speak  to 
her,  and but  I  will  first  speak  to  her  on  the  subject." 

The  farmer  bustled  out  of  the  room,  and  summoned  Helen  into  the  little 
apartment  which  she  called  her  own;  it  was  a  neat,  delicate  lodgment,  fit 
resting-place  for  such  a  maiden.  The  walls  were  of  snowy  whiteness  ;  a  large 
looking-glass,  in  a  plain  black  frame,  surmounted  the  chimney,  on  which  were 
placed  sundry  little  rural  figures,  in  variegated  china.  A  deer,  a  fawn,  a  trim 
girl,  with  her  milking-pail — (the  pail,  by  the  way,  green,  and  the  tree  which 
overshadowed,  a  bright  blue,  but  that  was  of  little  consequence) — then  a  shep- 
herd with  a  smart  pink  hat,  with  a  purple  flageolet,  and  two  hornless  goats,  one 
minus  three  legs — then  the  pretty  pictures ! — the  neat  sampler  with  its  border 
of  blue  strawberries,  and  yellow  roses — "  Helen  Gardiner,  aged  ten  years,"  in 
double-cross  stitch  at  the  bottom ;  the  bed,  with  its  white  cotton  hangings,  and 
its  pretty  patch  quilt,  all  diamonds,  corner-pieces,  and  striped  bordering,  har- 
monizing wonderfully  well  after  all.  The  simple  toilet  with  its  snowy  covering 
— and  the  glistening  cherry-tree  wardrobe — putting  to  shame  French  polish, 
and  Neapolitan  varnish,  by  its  brightness.  On  one  of  the  two  rush-bottomed 
chairs  Mr.  Gardiner  seated  himself,  and  drew  the  other  closer  to  him,  which 
Helen  was  directed  to  occupy.  Helen  trembled  much  at  first,  but  still  more, 
when  her  father  somewhat  abruptly  inquired,  if  Mr.  Connor  had  ever  asked  her 
to  marry  him  ? 

"  No,  father,"  was  her  immediate  reply — given,  nevertheless,  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  while  busily  occupied  in  rolling  up  the  end  of  her  band,  which,  by  the 
way,  was  green,  also. 

"  Nor  ever  talked  to  you  of  love  ?" 

"  Love,  father  V 

"  Yes,  love,  I  suppose  you  call  it." 

"  No — that  is,  not  much,  father." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  he  has  not  spoken  much  on  the  subject,  Helen  ;  for,  indeed, 
it  would  grieve  me  to  see  you  married  to  an  Irishman,  however  worthy  he 
might  be.  So,  my  dear,  I  will  tell  Connor  at  once  that  he  must  give  it  up,  as— 
as — it  is  the  better  way,  I  assure  you." 

"  Dear  father,"  exclaimed  Helen,  grasping  his  hand,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat ; 
"  you  do  not,  cannot  mean  what  you  say ;  indeed  you  must  not — it  would — make 
me  so — very " 

«  What, child  ?' 

"  Oh,  dear  father,  after  the  encouragement — indeed  you  must  not " 

"  Here 's  a  coil ! — must  not — encouragement — and  all  that.  Why,  Mary — 
Mary,  I  say " 

Helen's  widowed  sister  entered. 

"  Did  you  know  of  this  pretty  piece  of  work — your  sister's  listening  to  love- 
tales,  and  giving  encouragement  to  a  man,  an  Irishman  too,  without  my  know- 
ledge?" 


252  THE    WOOING    AND   WEDDING. 

"  I  knew,  sir,  certainly,  that  Helen  was  attached  to  Mark  Connor,  and  Mark 
Connor  to  her,  and  it  was  impossible  to  suppose  that  you  did  not  know  it  also  ; 
for  you  may  remember  how  much  they  have  been  together,  and  you  never  pre- 
vented it." 

"  How  did  I  suppose  they  were  to  fall  in  love  ? — Helen,  who  was  so  strict,  not 
like  other  girls !  Surely  she  refused  Alexander  Brownrig — a  man  that  half  the 
girls  in  the  parish  are  after." 

"  I  am  sure,"  interrupted  Mary,  "  it  was  Mark  Connor  who  drove  Brownrig 
out  of  her  head." 

"  I  wish  he  had  been  driving  his  own  pigs,  then,"  responded  the  father ; 
"  but  there,  Helen,  there — since  you  choose  to  fall  in  love  without  my  con- 
sent, I  suppose  my  consent  is  not  necessary  for  your  marriage — there,  let  go  my 
hand." 

She  did  let  go  his  hand,  for  the  unkindness  he  expressed  had  such  an  effect 
on  her  gentle  spirit  that  she  fainted  on  the  floor,  before  her  sister  or  father 
could  support  her :  the  revolution  in  her  parent's  feelings  was  instantaneous ; 
he  pressed  his  .lips  to  her  pale  forehead,  bestowed  on  her  all  the  endearing 
epithets  he  could  think  of,  and  finally  called  in  Mark  to  help  to  revive  her : 
both  father  and  lover  knelt  at  her  bed-side,  while  her  sister  chafed  her  tem- 
ples with  such  refreshing  stimulants  as  the  cottage  afforded.  When  she 
opened  her  eyes,  they  rested  upon  the  two  beings  she  loved  most,  and  the 
colour  flashed  over  her  pallid  features,  as  words  of  sweet  import  broke  upon 
her  ear. 

"  I  won't  refuse  either  consent  or  blessing,  my  own  Helen,  but  you  ought  to 
have  told  me  you  loved " 

"  Hush !  dear,  dear  father  !"  cried  the  blushing  girl,  as  she  raised  herself  on 
the  simple  couch ;  "  do  both  go  away,  and  I  shall  be  better,  quite  well,  in  the 
morning." 

"  What  piece  of  finery  is  this  ?"  said  the  father,  picking  off  the  coverlet  the 
identical  shamrock  brooch  which  I  before  hinted  at. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  only — a — a — " 

"  A  little  token  I  gave  her,"  said  Mark,  smiling,  "  though  I  never  knew  she 
wore  it  before." 

"  She  always  wore  it,"  observed  her  sister,  "  except  when  you  came ;  I  >m 
sure,  father,  you  might  have  seen  it,  confining  the  folds  of  her  neckerchief." 

Notwithstanding  the  different  feelings  of  the  little  party  who  assembled 
around  the  plain  supper-table  of  Farmer  Gardiner  on  that  memorable  evening, 
they  might  all  have  been  pronounced  happy.  Helen  and  Mark  were  perfectly 
so ;  the  old  man  had  resolved  to  make  the  best  of  the  matter,  and  was  also 
pleased  and  flattered  by  his  intended  son-in-law  expressing  his  hopes  that  he 
would  come  over  to  them  and  lay  out  their  farm  upon  the  most  approved 
English  principles.  The  youthful  widow,  the  light  of  whose  existence  had 
been  so  dimmed  by  the  loss  of  the  partner  her  heart  had  chosen  in  all  the 


THE   WOOING    AND   WEDDING.  253 

purity  of  its  first  affection,  looked  upon  her  sister,  and  the  smile  struggled  with 
the  unbidden  tear,  as  she  pressed  her  own  little  one  to  her  heart. 

The  next  day  it  was  very  evident  that  something  was  going  forward  of  a 
particular  nature  in  the  cottage ;  a  great  part  of  the  early  morning  was  spent 
in  consultation  with  Julia  Mailing,  the  little  London  dressmaker,  who  sported 
a  French  hat  and  French  curls — "  only  just  come  up ;" — and  then  an  adjourn- 
ment to  the  village  shop ;  and,  in  the  afternoon,  Mark  Connor  and  Mr.  Gardi- 
ner, mounted  upon  their  trusty  nags,  set  off  to  Bristol,  both  looking  full  of 
business,  and  then  came  a  cutting  and  snipping  of  book-muslin  and  sundry 

prints,  and  glimpses  of  white  satin  riband,  and but  it  is  unnecessary  to 

dwell  upon  the  preparations  ;  my  readers  must  know  already  that  nothing  but 
a  wedding  is  anticipated ;  and  a  wedding  surely  it  was,  though  not  conducted 
after  the  bridegroom's  notions  of  the  parade  essential  on  such  an  occasion. 
Helen,  to  be  sure,  looked  most  beautiful — every  body  (that  is  every  body  who 
saw  her)  said  she  looked  more  beautiful  than  any  woman  in  the  world  ever 
looked  before,  but  Mark  complained  sadly  that  there  were  not  people  enough, 
nor  dancing  enough  ;  and  then  Helen  did  not  appear  to  be  half  joyous  enough  ; 
and  when,  as  the  ceremony  was  concluded,  he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and 
called  her  "  wife !"  he  was  somewhat  mortified  to  find  her  warm  and  glowing 
cheek  wet  with  many  tears ;  he  could  not  understand,  when  he  was  literally 
half  mad  with  joy,  what  could  make  her  sad,  for  he  knew  she  loved  him  ;  and  he 
thought  to  himself  that  had  his  wedding  been  in  Ireland,  instead  of  in  England, 
there  would  have  been  more  mirth,  and  more  music,  and  Helen  would  have  been 
more  cheerful ;  as  it  was,  she  would  neither  sing,  dance,  nor  speak.  She  sat  like 
a  beautiful  marble  statue  between  her  father  and  her  husband  ;  and,  but  for  the 
flush  that  passed  occasionally  over  her  calm  face,  she  had  little  of  a  living  being 
about  her.  Mark  loved,  and,  like  all  Irishmen,  gloried  in  making  a  bustle  about 
it ;  he  could  not  fancy  a  wedding  without  much  rioting :  his  gentle  bride  loved 
also ;  though  it  was  not  given  to  him  to  comprehend  the  depth  or  the  delicacy 
of  her  untainted  affection. 

But  we  will,  if  you  please,  leave  the  bride  and  bridegroom  to  make  their 
arrangements,  and  conduct  their  leave  taking,  after  the  most  approved  fashion, 
rejoining  them  in  Ireland,  on  their  landing  in  the  village  of  Ballyhack ! — Bally- 
hack  ! — the  dirtiest  town — indeed,  the  only  dirty  town — of  our  county ;  the  very 
emporium  of  lean  pigs,  bad  butter,  and  unclad  beggars  ! 

Helen  had,  therefore,  an  ill  example  of  Ireland,  and  certainly  did  think  it 
must  be  a  wretched  country ;  but,  when  ascending  the  hill  that  opens  a  view  of 
.Lord  Templemore's  house  on  one  side,  and  the  beautiful  scenery  around  Dun- 
brody  Abbey  on  the  other,  she  changed  her  opinion,  and  expressed  her  delight 
at  the  improving  prospect.  "  Och !  wait  till  we  get  home,  Helen  !  and  though 
you  musn't  think  to  find  all  like  in  England,  yet  you  '11  soon  be  able  to  make  it 
so."  This  was  easier  said  than  done.  Poor  Helen ! — silently  and  patiently 
did  she  toil ;  and,  to  do  Mark  justice,  he  aided  all  her  undertakings,  in  open 
defiance  of  the  sneers  of  the  entire  parish,  with  very  few  exceptions.  Helen's 


254  '       THE   WOOING   AND   WEDDING. 

calmness  was  called  pride,  and  her  exact  neatness  was  a  positive  reproof  to  the 
slovenly  habits  of  the  uncultivated  peasantry;  and  here  I  think  it  right  to 
mention,  lest  there  should  be  any  mistake  about  the  matter,  that  she  was  not 
fortunate  enough  at  that  time  to  be  a  resident  exactly  in  Bannow.  Mark  had 
wisely  taken  his  cottage  at  a  good  space  from  his  mother's  dwelling,  for  he 
knew  that  the  friendship  of  relatives,  brought  up  so  differently,  increases  with 
distance.  They  resided  in  the  vicinity  of  the  "  Seven  Castles  of  Clonmines" — a 
remarkable,  and  peculiarly  interesting  locality  on  the  other  side  of  "  the  Scar" 
— dim  records  of  a  gone-by  history — early  structures  raised  by  the  first  Eng- 
lish conquerors,  to  keep  the  possessions  they  had  gained  by  the  sword,  and 
control  the  "  mere  Irish."  Matty,  his  youngest  brother,  was  often  with  them, 
and  he  improved  much  by  the  wise  precepts  and  uniformly  good  example  of  his 
new  sister ;  but  Helen's  greatest  torment  was  a  fault-finding,  pains-taking  (as 
far  as  making  mischief  went)  old  maid,  the  chronicle,  and  scandalous  magazine 
of  the  county.  Nobody  liked  her,  and  everybody  tolerated  her,  for  the  simple 
reason  why  every  gossip  finds  a  welcome — because  she  was  full,  brimfull,  of 
news  and  scandal.  The  parish  had  a  little  occasional  rest  when  "Judy  Maggs," 
as  she  was  called,  pursued  her  vocation  of  carder,  and  wandered  from  county 
to  county  in  search  of  employment ;  but,  unfortunately,  her  only  brother  died 
at  sea,  and  left  her  in  possession  of  "  a  good  penny  o'  money,"  so  that,  at  the 
period  to  which  I  allude,  she  might  be  considered  only  as  an  amateur  carder. 
She  was  chiefly  occupied  in  investigating  and  meddling  in  everybody's  business, 
within  five  miles  of  her  dwelling ;  not  that  she  objected  to  long  journeys :  she 
has  gone  three  times  in  a  week  to  Waterford,  a  distance  of  seventeen  miles,  to 
find  if  Katey  Turner's  gown  really  cost  two  shillings  and  eight-pence  per  yard  ; 
and  no  one  can  deny  that  she  was  not  well  repaid  for  her  trouble,  when  she 
ascertained  it  to  be  an  absolute  fact,  that  the  little  gipsy  got  it  a  dead  bargain 
at  two  and  six.  She  went  messages  for  every  one,  from  those  of  the  squire's 
house,  to  the  mud  cabin  of  blind  Peggy  O'Rooney !  Nothing  came  amiss  to 
her  in  that  way ;  she  might  be  termed,  in  the  exercise  of  walking,  a  most  won- 
derful woman,  a  universal  carrier,  from  a  whisper  to  an  "  established  fact" 

"  Why,  then,  Mrs.  Connor,  ma'am,"  said  she,  one  morning,  addressing  Helen, 
who,  as  usual,  was  setting  her  house  in  order,  "  will  ye  be  afther  telling  us  what 
the  young  masther  is  ploughing  the  ould  wheat-field  for  ?" 

"  To  sow  flax  -in,  Judy." 

"  That 's  English,  asthore  ! — sure,  poorer  land  nor  that  'ud  do  for  flax — where 
did  he  larn  to  throw  flax  into  sich  rich  soil  ?" 

"  In  the  Netherlands,  I  have  heard,  they  never  sow  flax  except  in  good  soil ; 
and  you  know  the  best  linen  comes  from  that  country." 

"I  ax  your  pardon  civilly,  Mrs.  Connor,  ma'am — as  if  I  didn't  know  all  relat- 
ing to  the  seed,  breed,  and  generation  of  all  the  flax  in  the  world  wide  !  Oh ! 
wirrasthrew  !— to  even  that  to  me ! — the  Nitherlands  !  what  is  they  to  the  North, 
in  regard  o'  linen-makin?" 

Gentle  Helen  Connor  had  enough  to  do  to  appease  the  angry  dame,  who,  as  a 


THE    WOOING   AND   WEDDING.  255 

professional  carder,  was  thought  omnipotent  in  all  flax  questions ;  and  she  had  at 
length  got  her  into  good  humour,  when  Mark's  brother,  unfortunately,  entered, 
and  introduced  a  new  subject  of  contention. 

"  Now  that  the  reaping  is  over,  Mattv,"  said  Helen,  "  I  hope  you  will  bind 
and  stook  the  crop  at  once,  not  leave  it  on  the  ledge,  as  you  did  last  year — 
I  think  it  will  rain — at  all  events  it  may;  and  it  is  better  to  be  on  the  safe 
side." 

"  Bind  and  stook  the  crap,  afore  a  body  has  time  to  turn  round  !"  exclaimed 
Judy — "  Och  hone  !  that 's  another  English  fashion,  I  suppose — or,  may-be  it 's 
from  the  Niverlands  ! — wouldn't  to-morrow,  or  the  day  afther,  do  for  that  ?  I  '11 
go  bail  for  the  weather — sorra  a  good  in  doing  things  in  a  hurry !" 

Helen  made  no  further  remark,  and  Matty  promised,  in  open  defiance  of  Judy 
Maggs,  to  see  that  the  corn  was  bound  and  stooked  immediately.  "  But  what  I 
came  in  for,  principally,  Helen,"  said  he,  "  was  to  tell  you  that  the  pig  is  laid  out 
read)'  for  burning  in  the  barn." 

"Burning  in  the  barn!"  echoed  Judy,  starting  from  her  seat:  "and  are 
pigs  so  plinty  with  ye,  that  ye  mean  to  burn  'em,  and  so  many  poor  crathurs 
starving?  Och,  that  I  should  live  to  see  such  fashions!  Good  mornin'! — 
good  mornin'  to  ye,  Mistress  Mark  Connor ! — and  God  sind  ye  better  sense, 
and  a  little  more  Christianity! — burn  a  pig!  Och,  my  grief!" — Judy  Maggs 
stood  no  further  question,  but  trotted  off,  eager  to  communicate  to  her  neigh- 
bours the  melancholy  intelligence,  that  Mark  Connor's  English  wife  "  vvint  so 
far  with  her  notions  as  to  make  fire-wood  of  a  pig  !"  On  her  journey,  it  was 
her  misfortune,  or  rather,  considering  her  love  of  tattle,  her  good  fortune,  to 
encounter  Mister  Blaney  O'Doole,  the  parish  carpenter,  who  was  seated  on  the 
car  that,  turned  on  end,  served  as  a  gate  to  stop  the  gap  leading  to  the  short 
cut  to  old  Mrs.  Connor's  dwelling.  Blaney  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  who,  all 
over  the  world,  would  be  recognized  as  a  real  Emeralder.  "  Good  morrow, 
Mr.  Blaney,"  said  she.  "  Good  morrow  to  ye,  kindly,  ma'am,"  said  he. 
"  What 's  stopping  ye,  sir  ?"  said  she.  "  Why,  thin  I  '11  tell  ye  ma'am,  dear,  if 
ye  '11  give  me  time,"  said  he,  "  but  it's  yerself  was  always  the  devil  afther  the 
news — though  sorra  a  much 's  stirrin' — but  I  'm  waitin'  to  take  the  stone  out  o' 
my  brogue',  that  'ud  never  ha'  got  there,  only  for  the  bla'gardly  way  they  made 
the  new  road.  What  could  the  country  expect  from  the  presintment  overseer, 
and  he  a  Connaught  man  ?  Didn't  I  see  him  with  the  sight  o'  my  eyes,  after 
bargaining  with  Tim  Dacey  to  take  tinpence  a  day,  and  a  shilling  allowed  by 
the  county  (and  paid  too) — didn't  I  see  him  give  poor  Tim  the  full  hire  with 
one  hand,  and  take  back  the  odd  pence  (that  weren't  pence  but  pounds)  with 
the  other !  so  that,  if  called,  he  could  make  oath,  with  a  safe  conscience,  that 
he  ped  the  whole."  "  That's  a  good  story,  faith  !"  replied  Judy,  laughing,  and 
losing  all  feeling  of  the  roguery  of  the  transaction  in  the  amusement  occasioned 
by  its  cleverness, — "  but  hardly  as  smart  as  one  that  /  had  the  sight  of  my  eyes 
for,  up  in  the  county  Kilkenny,  as  good  as  tin  years  agone, — when  a  man — a 
gentleman,  they  called  him — got  a  presintment  to  mend  a  piece  of  a  road ;  and 


256  THE    WOOING    AND    WEDDING. 

what  does  he,  but  lays  the  notes  down  along — along — iver  so  far  on  the  bare 
ground  o'  the  highway,  and  then  picks  them  up — claps  thim  into  his  pocket — 
walks  off  to  the  nixt  grand  jury — and  makes  affidavit,  that '  he  laid  the  money 
out  upon  the  road.' — But  is  it  manners  to  ax  where  'ud  ye  be  going  wid  yer  bag 
full  o'  tools  ?" 

"  I  'm  jist  stepping  down  to  Mark  Connor's,  to  get  the  morral  of  a  new 
barrow  with  two  wheels,  that  he  wants  made,  and  that  he  says  is  powerful  good 
for  all  sorts  and  manner  o'  work.  I  wonder  he  didn't  get  it  done  of  iron,  like 
the  cart  he  brought  over,  which  cost  him  a  good  five  guineas,  and  I  could  ha' 
made  him  one  of  wood  twice  as  big  for  three." 

"  Of  iron,  agra !"  repeated  Judy. 

"  Ay,  astore  !"  replied  the  carpenter,  "  and  so  much  wood  in  the  country  ; 
wasn't  it  a  sin  ?  How  grand  he  is,  to  be  sure,  as  if  the  sort  o'  cars  his  neigh- 
bours have  wasn't  good  enough  for  him  !" 

"  Thrue  for  ye — that 's  a  thrue  word  ; — but  I  could  tell  ye  more  than  that ; 
pigs  are  so  plenty  with  them,  that  his  fine  English  madam  of  a  wife,  at  this  very 
minute,  is  burnin'  a  pig  in  the  barn." 

It  was  now  the  carpenter's  turn  to  be  astonished. 

"  Burnin'  a  pig ! — O,  thin,  for  what !" 

"  For  what !"  said  Judy,  a  little  puzzled  ;  "  why  thin  it 's  myself  that  can't  tell 
exactly,"  she  replied ;  "  only  for  sport,  as  I  could  make  out,  or  for  fire-wood 
may-be !" 

"  Holy  Mother !"  ejaculated  the  astonished  man  of  chips,  and  wended  on 
his  way  ;  while  Judy  called  after  him,  "  Find  out  for  me  the  good  o'  burnin'  a 

Pig-" 

The  evening  of  this  day  was  a  very  pleasant  and  cheerful  one  in  Mark  Con- 
nor's kitchen.  A  neat  white  cloth  was  spread  on  a  clean  deal  table ;  there 
was  a  small  square  carpet  laid  over  the  centre  of  the  floor ;  and  the  tin  and 
copper  vessels  on  and  under  the  dresser  were  brightly  burnished ;  the  fire  cer- 
tainly appeared  almost  as  if  made  on  the  hearth,  but,  in  fact,  it  was  burning  in 
a  very  Idw  grate,  that  had  both  hobs  and  a  trivet ;  and  at  each  side  of  the 
capacious  chimney  were  stuffed  settles,  neatly  made,  and  comfortable.  On  one 
of  these,  Mark  was  stretched  at  full  length ;  the  other  was  occupied  by  Matty 
arid  Blaney  O'Doole ;  and  Helen  was  endeavouring  to  convince  a  wild,  but 
good-humoured  looking  serving  girl,  that  a  gridiron  ought  to  be  kept  clean, 
and  was  much  fitter  to  do  a  pork  griskin  on,  that  was  crying,  like  Kilkenny 
fowls,  "  Come,  eat  me — come,  eat  me,"  than  the  kitchen  tongs  that  the  lassie 
had  extended  on  the  fire  for  the  purpose,  although  the  gridiron  was  just  as 
easy  to  get  at 

The  cloth,  as  I  have  said,  was  laid,  and  the  supper  in  active  preparation, 
when  in  walked  old  Mrs.  Connor.  Now,  let  people  be  ever  so  much  inclined 
to  find  fault — let  them  be  in  ever  so  bad  a  humour,  there  is  something  almost 
irresistibly  soothing  in  a  group  of  smiling,  happy  faces,  and  a  well-regulated 
apartment  I  care  not  whether  it  be  in  a  palace  or  a  cottage ;  a  wooden  chair 


THE  WOOING  AND  WEDDING.  257 

may  be  as  well  placed  as  one  of  gold  and  damask ;  and  if  a  youth  is  wooingly 
disposed  towards  any  damsel,  as  he  values  his  happiness,  let  him  follow  my 
advice ; — call  on  the  lady  when  she  least  expects  him,  and  take  note  of  the 
appearance  of  all  that  is  under  her  control.  Observe  if  the  shoes  fit  neatly — 
if  the  gloves  are  clean,  and  the  hair  well  polished.  And  I  would  forgive  a  man 
for  breaking  off  an  engagement,  if  he  discovered  a  greasy  novel  hid  away  under 
the  cushion  of  a  sofa,  or  a  hole  in  the  garniture  of  the  prettiest  foot  in  the 
world.  Slovenliness  will  be  ever  avoided  by  a  well-regulated  mind,  as  would  a 
pestilence.  A  woman  cannot  be  always  what  is  called  dressed,  particularly  one 
'in  middling  or  humble  life,  where  her  duty,  and,  it  is  consequently  to  be 
hoped,  her  pleasure,  lie  in  superintending  and  assisting  in  all  domestic  matters ; 
but  she  may  be  always  neat — well  appointed.  And  as  certainly  as  a  virtuous 
woman  is  a  crown  of  glory  to  her  husband,  so  surely  is  a  slovenly  one  a  crown 
of  thorns.  Now,  having  given  what  is  seldom  attended  to,  gratuitous  advice, 
I  must  proceed  to  say,  that  old  Mrs.  Connor  was  never  particularly  sweet  or 
gentle  in  her  temper,  and  as  she  entered  the  cottage,  according  to  the  Irish 
phrase,  Mark  wondered  "  what  was  in  his  mother's  nose  now."  When,  how- 
ever, Helen  took  the  great  corking-pin,  out  of  her  mother-in-law's  cloak  (which, 
by  the  way,  for  want  of  a  string,  had  torn  a  large  rent  in  the  cloth),  and 
placing  her  gently  on  the  easy  settle  (a  luxury  perfectly  unknown  in  the  gene- 
rality of  Irish  cabins),  gazed  sweetly  and  calmly  in  her  cranky  face,  and  in- 
quired affectionately  after  her  health,  the  old  lady  softened  a  little,  and  looked 
around  with  a  less  dissatisfied  countenance. 

"  Just  in  time,  mother,"  said  Mark,  "  just  in  time  to  share  our  supper ;  in- 
deed, Helen  had  laid  by  something  nice  for  ye,  which  Matty  was  to  take  over 
to-morrow ;  but  make  yerself  comfortable ;  and,  though  it 's  been  a  busy  day 
with  us  all,  yet  we're  no  ways  in  confusion."  The  old  lady  had  not  time  to 
reply,  when  there  was  a  smart  knock  at  the  door,  and  Mark's  cheerful  voice 
gave  the  usual  invitation,  "  Come  in,  and  kindly  welcome ;"  our  old  friend  Judy 
Maggs  appeared  immediately,  and  a  sort  of  interchanging  glance  passed  between 
the  two  ancient  dames. 

"  Sure  it's  glad  I  am  o'  shelter,"  said  Judy,  taking  off  her  new  beaver  hat, 
and  carefully  wiping  it  with  the  tail  of  her  gown. 

"  Ye  don't  mane  to  say  it 's  rainin'  ?"  retorted  Blaney  O'Doole. 

"  Pepperin'  like  fun,"  replied  Judy,  "  and  so  suddent  too  !" 

"  Och,  my  grief! — and  all  my  little  handful  o'  barley,  that  I  had  the  ill-luck  to 
rape  as  good  as  a  week  agone,  upon  the  ledge." 

"  Our's  is  safe,"  exclaimed  Matty,  joyfully,  "  thanks  to  Helen  for  it — for 
Mark  hasn't  time  to  look  to  everything — and  sure  I  'd  ha'  never  heeded  it,  but 
for  her."  Helen  smiled  at  her  good-natured  brother,  and  it  was  observed  that 
Judy  looked  particularly  confused. 

"  Mark,"  said  Blaney,  "  did  ye  hear  what  a  shockin'  misfortune  happened  Mr. 
Clancy  ? — sure  his  crap  o'  flax  was  no  crap  at  all,  afther  his  takin'  three  years' 


258  THE    WOOING    AND    WEDDING. 

lase  of  Stoney  Knock,  thinkin'  't  would  do  well  enough  for  flax ;  and  the  agin, 
won't  let  him  off  his  bargain." 

"  Serve  him  right,  I  told  him  how  't  would  be,"  replied  Mark ;  "  poor  land 
never  gave  out  a  good  crop  yet — jist  like  people  expecting  to  fatten  pigs  upon 
green  food.  I  wish  your  sister  Mary  was  over  here,  Helen,  to  teach  us  how  to 
fatten  them  her  way." 

"  One  'ud  think  yer  father's  son  ought  to  know  how  to  fatten  pigs  better 
than  any  one,  and  he  bred,  born,  and  reared,  among  them,"  observed  Mrs.  Con- 
nor. Poor  Helen,  for  the  life  of  her,  could  not  comprehend  Irish  metaphor ; 
and  she  repeated,  with  a  flushed  cheek,  "  Mark's  father  born  and  reared  among 
pigs  ! — surely  you  mistake  !" 

"  No  mistake  in  life,  Helen  ;  sure,  there 's  myself  and  his  sons  to  the  fore,  who 
are  proud  to  own  it"  Helen  looked  to  her  husband  for  an  explanation,  but  he 
only  laughed. 

"  I  don't  understand  Irish,"  replied  Helen,  smiling  in  her  turn,  "  and  I  think  I 
make  many  mistakes  for  that  reason." 

"  I  '11  niver  stand  to  hear  any  one  abuse  my  English,"  said  Mrs.  Connor, 
angrily ;  "  and,  Mark,  if  you  can  stand  to  see  me  turned  on  afther  that  fashion, 
by  yer  wife,  I  '11  not — that 's  all." 

"  Nor  I  neither,"  added  the  woman  of  many  professions. 

"  Helen  !  my  Helen,  abuse  you,  mother  ! — Helen ! — she  never  abused  either 
you  or  any  one  else ;  the  fact  is,  she  does  not  understand  your  Irish,  and  you 
don't  understand  her  English " 

"  Mark,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Connor,  rising  hastily,  and  looking  very  angry 
and  grand,  while  Judy  Maggs,  whose  figure  was  little  and  rotund,  crouched 
close  beneath  the  shadow  of  her  elbow,  "  Mark,  I'm  a  plain-spoken  Irishwoman, 
and  your  natural  mother,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  tell  ye  that  I  don't  like  yer 
goings  on ;  I  'd  scorn  to  say  a  thing  behind  yer  back,  for  I  'm  neither  a  flea,  a 
fly,  nor  a  Connaught  man,  but  I  tell  you  to  your  face  that  I  do  not  like  yer 
outlandish  ways.  Now,  Helen,  I  don't  want  to  make  ye  cry,  girl;  and  ye 
needn't  interrupt  me,  Mark,  for  I  '11  say  my  say,  and  be  done  wid  it.  In  the 
first  place,  Helen,  it  was  not  manners,  the  day  my  brother  Hacket  called  on 
you,  out  o'  civility,  on  his  way  from  the  fair,  for  you  to  mix  wather  wid  the 
drop  o'  whiskey  ye  handed  him ;  and,  whin  he  drank  the  trashy  stuff,  ye  hadn't 
the  dacency  to  fill  him  another  sup,  but  says,  '  Will  you  take  a  little  more  ? — 
may-be,  ye  'd  rather  not  ?' — Was  that  the  way  (I  'd  lave  it  to  judge  and  jury)  to 
trate  a  relation  ?" 

"  Mother,"  said  Helen,  "  it  was  not  that ;  but  indeed  Mr.  Hacket  had  taken 
enough  before  he  came  here,  and  I  didn't  like " 

"  That 's  more  of  it,"  interrupted  the  old  lady ;  "  I  say  nothin'  agin  his  being 
a  little  merry  now  and  thin,  but  to  talk  of  his  havin'  taken  enough !  Oh,  to 
think  of  that  bein'  evened  to  a  brother  o'  mine !— but  wait ;  it 's  only  to-day  I 
heard  that  you,  Mark,  had  sint  for  Jimmy  Smith,  the  mason,  to  make  a  back 
door  to  yer  house.  What  need  has  any  dacent  quiet  family  like  yours,  of  a  back 


THE  WOOING  AND  WEDDING.  259 

door  ?  Sure,  there  's  no  rogues  among  ye,  that  ye  need  a  back  door  to  escape 
tnrough  ?" 

"  You  don't  understand,  mother,"  said  Mark. 

"  I  don't  want  to  understand,"  replied  the  old  woman,  who  had  talked  herself 
into  a  belief  of  all  she  uttered ;  "  I  want  to  spake  my  mind,  and  to  put  a  stop  to 
yer  improvements,  as  ye  call  'em.  I  wonder  ye  wouldn't  have  more  pathriotism 
than  to  be  bringin'  foreign  ways  into  the  counthry ! — I  '11  say  nothin'  to  ye 
about  the  iron  car — Lord  save  us ! — iron  ! — and  so  much  wood  to  be  had  for  a 
song  ! — nor  the  barrow  with  two  wheels — though  my  wonder  is,  where  or  how 
ye  can  put  two  wheels  under  a  barrow ;  nor  about  iron  cornstands — and  stones 
to  be  got  for  nothin'; — but  I  don't  see  why  there  should  be  such  a  set-out  o'  tins 
shinin'  about  the  kitchen ;  in  my  time,  two  or  three  things  sarved  for  all — and 
why  not  ? — but  it 's  my  duty  I  'm  doin',  and " 

"  Don't  forget  the  pig,"  whispered  the  curious  and  impatient  Judy,  raising  her- 
self on  tiptoe  to  Mrs.  Connor's  ear ; — the  old  lady  seized  the  idea  with  avidity : 
"  But  may-be,  as  I  understand  nothin',"  said  she,  ironically,  "  ye  'd  have  the 
goodness  to  Irish  me  the  English  of  '  burnin'  pigs  V " 

"  Burning  pigs  !"  echoed  Helen. 

"  Burning  pigs  !"  repeated  Mark. 

"  Ay,  burnin'  pigs  ! — makin'  fire-wood  of  them  !" 

"  I  never  heard  of  the  like  even !"  replied  Mark,  "  not  in  all  my  travels." 

"  Oh,  the  lies  and  wickedness  of  the  world  !"  exclaimed  Judy,  clasping  her 
hands  together,  and  turning  up  her  eyes ;  "  and  it  done  here  this  very  day." 

"  It 's  you  that 's  telling  lies,  Miss  Maggs !"  exclaimed  Mark,  eager  to  vent  the 
anger  which  had  been  for  some  time  accumulating  ;  "  it's  you  that 's  telling  lies, 
and  well  I  know  that  ye  're  the  mother  of  lies,  and  the  counthry  will  never  have 
rest  or  peace,  till  you,  and  the  likes  of  ye,  are  out  of  it." 

"  Hould  yer  tongue,  Mark !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Connor,  "  for  it 's  the  truth 
Judy's  tellin'.  Speak  up,  Judy,  didn't  ye  see  Matty  and  Helen  both  set  fire  to  a 
live  pig  ?" 

Helen  looked  perfectly  astonished,  while  Matty  swore  and  protested  that 
he  had  never  done,  or  even  thought  of,  such  a  thing  in  his  whole  life :  the  wind 
changed,  and  Judy,  who  (owing,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  to  the  imaginative  organ 
being  frequently  called  into  action,  and,  consequently,  acquiring  considerable 
vigour),  having  certainly  enlarged  the  report,  after  the  fashion  of  all  approved 
story-tellers ;  Judy  found  it  somewhat  awkward  to  be  brought  to  facts :  and, 
as  a  dernier  ressort,  denied  having  ever  used  the  word  "  Z/ue."  Old  Mrs.  Connor 
continued  positive  in  her  first  assertion ;  and,  at  all  events,  after  much  bitter 
bandying  of  many  words,  the  scene  closed,  upon  old  Mrs.  Connor  and  Judy 
Maggs  quitting  Mark's  cottage,  at  variance  with  its  inmates  and  each  other  ; 
while  poor  Helen,  leaning  her  head  against  the  wall,  was  weeping  bitterly,  and 
even  Mark  appeared  worried  and  out  of  temper. 

Mark  Connor  was  anything  but  weak ;  and,  yet,  being  seriously  angry  with 
his  mother,  and  the  gossiping  sisterhood  in  general,  he  did  not  kiss  the  tears  from 


260  THE  WOOING  AND  WEDDING. 

Helen's  cheek,  his  customary  mode  of  chasing  the  sorrowing  tokens  away,  but 
in  no  very  gentle  tone  said,  "  Ye'd  better  leave  off  crying,  Helen; — women's 
tongues  and  women's  tears  are  always  ready  when  not  wanted." 

"  I  seldom  trouble  you  with  rny  tears,  Mark,",  replied  Helen,  perhaps  a  little, 
leetie,  pettishly. 

"  You  've  seldom  reason,  Helen." 

"  I  am  not  saying  I  have." 

"  But  I  say  you  have  not." 

Helen  was  silent — unjustly  so,  perhaps — but  it  was  a  slight  indication  of 
woman's  temper,  and  Mark  was  in  no  humour  to  put  up  with  it. 

"  I  say  you  have  not,  nor  never  have  had  since  you  have  been  my  wife." 

The  remembrance  of  his  mother's  rudeness,  and  Judy  Maggs's  vulgarity,  was 
fresh  upon  her  mind,  and  she  ejaculated — 

"  Mark !  Mark  !  how  can  you  say  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well !"  replied  the  husband,  "  very  well !  I  suppose  the  first  tale 
you  tell  your  father,  and  he  coming  over  next  week,  will  be — '  how  ill  I  have 
used  you !" 

Helen  was  again  silent,  and  her  calm  features  assumed  somewhat  the  expres- 
sion of  sulkiness. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  your  father  that  1  have  used  you  ill  ?"  reiterated  Mark, 
raising  his  voice  at  the  same  time. 

Helen's  tears  flowed  afresh,  and  she  sobbed,  "  You  never  did  till  now." 

It  was  very  unfortunate  for  both  Mark  and  Helen  that  others  were  wit- 
nesses to  this  first  difference ;  for  had  they  been  alone,  Mark's  pride,  and 
Helen's  too,  would  have  given  way ;  but,  as  it  was,  neither  would  make  the 
first  advance  towards  reconciliation,  and  Mark  swore  a  wicked  oath,  consigning 
all  women  to  the  care  of  a  certain  unmentionable  black  gentleman ;  and  ended 
his  pretty  speech  by  muttering  certain  words  ;  their  import  being  that  he  wished 
he  had  never  married  an  Englishwoman.  This  was  the  unkindest  cut  of  all. 
Helen,  now  really  angry  with  her  husband,  and  justly  hurt  at  his  unkindness, 
left  the  kitchen  with  the  air  of  an  offended  princess,  and  the  cooking  to  the 
little  serving  maiden,  who  performed  it  most  sadly.  "  I  '11  not  stay  supper, 
thankee,  Mark,"  said  Blaney  O'Doole,  who  had  wisely  forborne  all  interference 
in  a  most  Mwlrish  way,  rising  as  he  spoke,  and  stroking  his  "  cawbeen"  with  the 
open  palm  of  his  hand,  "  I  '11  not  stay  supper,  I  thankee  kindly,  all  the  same, 
but  I  '11  go  home ;  only,  Mark,  if  I  had  swore  that  way  at  Misthress  Blaney 
O'Doole,  my  wife,  you  know,  I  wouldn't  be  in  a  whole  skin  now,  that 's  all ;  good 
night,  and  God  be  wid  ye !" 

"  I  '11  go  to  bed,  Mark,"  said  Matty,  "  I  'm  very  tired  :  only,  Mark,  asthore  ! 
don't  be  hard  upon  Helen ;  sure,  ye  know,  the  English  are  finer-like  than  us, 
and  I  saw  her  lip  shake  whin  you  swore  so  at  her ;  and,  indeed,  I  can't  help 
thinkin'  our  place  a  dale  nicer  than  any  one  else's ;  she  does  bother  about  it  to 
be  sure,  and  is  horrid  partiklar,  but  she 's  gentle-hearted,  and  gave  me  such  a 
beautiful  green  silk  Barcelona  for  Sunday,  and  says  she  '11  give  me  a  silver 


THE    WOOING   AND   WEDDING.  261 

watch  whin  I  'm  fifteen ; — don't  be  cruel,  Mark ;  do  you  know  that  when  I  'm  a 
man,  I  '11  marry  an  Englishwoman  !"  And  off  went  Matty,  but  not  to  bed  ;  he 
left  his  brother  sitting  stubbornly  at  supper,  his  elbows  resting  on  the  table, 
and  his  face  resting  on  his  hands.  "  He  's  in  one  of  his  sulks,"  thought  the 
good-natured  boy,  as  he  stole  round  the  gable-end  of  the  house  to  his  sister- 
in-law's  bed-room  window,  "  and,  if  they  're  long  coming,  they  are  desperate 
long  goin' !  I  '11  see  if  I  can't  coax  Helen  to  go  and  make  it  up  with  him  ; 
and  I  '11  find  some  way  to  punish  that  meddlesome  ould  woman — for  it  was  all 
of  her  that  my  mother  was  stirred  up  for  a  battle  to-night — as  if  Mark  hadn't 
a  right  to  his  own  way!"  These  thoughts  brought  Matty  Connor  to  the 
little  window  that  was  curtained  on  the  outside  by  the  leaves  of  some  fine 
geraniums,  Helen's  own  particular  plants ;  he  peeped  through  the  foliage,  and 
saw  Helen,  her  eyes  still  red  with  weeping,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  small 
Bible  (it  had  been  her  father's  parting  gift),  as  she  sat  at  the  little  neat  dressing- 
table. 

"  Helen !  Helen !"  said  he,  softly,  "  Helen,  avourneen  !  don't  fret,  dear,  but 
jist  make  friends  wid  Mark ;  the  natur'  of  us  Irish,  you  know,  is  hasty  and  hot ; 
but,  sure,  Mark  loves  ye  (and  good  reason  he  has)  more  than  his  heart's  blood, 
and  it 's  proud  he  is  to  have  an  English  wife ;  sure  it  was  only  this  mornin'  he 
owned  so,  and  he  guidin'  the  plough ;  when  Mister  Rooney,  the  man  with  the 
big  farm,  said  that  this  house  was  a  pattern  to  the  country-side, '  It 's  my  wife  I 
may  thank  for  it,'  made  answer  my  brother,  as  well  he  might." 

"  For  your  mother  to  accuse  me  of  burning  a  live  pig !"  said  Helen,  indig- 
nantly. 

"  Helen,  dear !  I  know  what  that  was  owin'  to ;  that  blunderin',  ould, 
wizzen-faced,  go-by-the-ground,  Judy  Maggs,  who,  whin  I  tould  ye  the  pig 
was  ready  for  burnin'  in  the  barn  (meanin',  you  know,  that  it  was  ready  to 
have  the  hair  singed  off,  the  Hampshire  way,  for  bacon,  instead  of  bein'  scalded 
our  way),  was  all  in  a  fuss  to  know  what  I  was  afther :  I  was  no  way  inclined 
to  gratify  her  curosity  ;  don't  you  mind,  I  mean  rimimber,  what  a  lantin'  puff 
she  set  off  in  this  very  mornin'  about  it  ?" 

Helen  sighed,  and  thought,  as  everybody  else  thinks  who  attempts  to  im- 
prove Ireland,  that  the  beginning  is  difficult,  if  not  dangerous — c'est  le  premier 
pas  qui  coute.  "  But  you  '11  make  it  up  with  Mark,  Helen  ;  poor  fellow  !  there 
he  is  sitting  by  himself,  and  the  fire  out,  and  Biddy  spoilt  the  supper  entirely — 
sorra  a  bit  he 's  eat." 

"  Not  eat  any  supper !"  repeated  Helen,  slowly  looking  up. 

"  Not  as  much  as  'ud  fill  a  mite's  eye ! — and  Helen,"  added  the  cunning  rogue, 
"  he  had  a  hard  day's  work,  and  wasn't  over  well." 

Helen  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  little  book,  then  closed  and  pushed  it 
gently  from  her. 

"  Good  night,  dear  Matty — don't  forget  your  prayers — good  night." 

Matty  had  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  woman's  heart,  which  it  puzzles  many  a 


262  THE    WOOING   AND   WEDDING. 

philosopher  to  acquire,  so  he  only  murmured  a — "  God  bless  you  !"  and  with- 
drew, thinking  slyly  to  himself,  "  that  'ill  bring  her  round,  any  way." 

Soon,  very  soon  after,  a  small,  gentle  hand  lifted  the  latch  of  the  kitchen 
door ;  presently,  Helen's  face  appeared  at  the  opening,  sweet,  but  serious. 
Mark  pretended  to  be  both  deaf  and  blind — he  still  retained  his  position — and, 
though  she  advanced  into  the  kitchen,  he  moved  not.  Helen's  pride  and  her 
affection  wrestled  for  a  moment  within  her,  but  the  woman  triumphed;  she 
threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  looked  affectionately  in  his  face ;  it  was 
enough — "  there  was  naebody  by,"  so  Mark  compromised  his  dignity,  and  the 
past  was  forgotten.  I  do  believe  this  was  the  last,  as  I  know  it  to  have  been 
the  first,  quarrel  that  followed  Mark  Connor's  wooing  and  wedding.  It  was  a 
long  time  before  Judy  Maggs  found  out  the  real  meaning  of  Helen's  burning 
the  pig ;  and,  indeed,  she  would  never  have  been  perfectly  enlightened  on  the 
subject,  but  for  Helen's  good-nature,  who  sent  her  a  portion  of  the  "  burnt" 
flitch,  as  a  make-up  for  Mark's  bluntness,  he  having  forbidden  her  the  house  ; 
a  course  that  all  who  loved  peace  speedily  adopted  likewise.  The  most  obsti- 
nate disciples  of  old  customs  in  time  saw  the  advantage  of  Mark's  farming 
improvements;  his  flax  was  the  finest  in  the  county;  his  corn  was  always 
stacked  in  time ;  his  bacon  the  best  ever  tasted ;  and  even  his  mother  confessed 
the  superiority  of  the  two-wheeled  barrow.  The  back  door,  I  fear,  was  always 
regarded  as  a  sad  innovation,  notwithstanding  the  proof  of  its  being  the  means 
of  keeping  the  front  one  clean.  Helen's  housekeeping,  even,  after  a  long  trial, 
received  its  due  meed  of  praise,  though  I  fear  that  her  husband's  family  was 
the  last  to  award  it ; — the  "  cry  of  the  country"  obliged  them  to  do  so  at  length, 
and  then,  as  Mark  himself  said,  "  The  deuce  thank  them  for  it."  He  was  wise 
in  suffering,  after  that  night,  no  interference ;  and  the  greatest  triumph  Helen 
experienced  was  when  old  Mrs.  Connor  not  only  requested  her  receipt  to  make 
plum-pudding,  but  actually  begged  her  to  go  to  her  house  to  make  it — a  tacit 
acknowledgment  of  her  superiority. 

About  four  years  after  her  marriage,  when  her  father  came  to  see  her  for  the 
second  time,  as  he  walked  down  the  garden  to  her  little  flower  knot,  for  which 
he  had  brought  some  rare  bulbs,  and  held  her  little  boy  (a  rosy,  "  potato-faced" 
fellow)  by  the  hand — who  amused  himself  by  breaking  his  grandfather's  pipe 
into  short  pieces,  an  operation  that  was  not  perceived  by  either  grandpapa  or 
mother — the  following  conversation  took  place  between  them  : 

"I  confess,  Helen,  I  feared  you  would  never  be  so  happy  as  you  appear.  I 
never  doubted  Mark's  kindness — but  really  the  people  are  so  careless " 

"  Yet  good-natured,"  said  Helen,  smiling. 

"  So  insincere." 

"  Not  so,  father,  they  always  mean  to  perform  what  they  promise ;  but  they 
are,  I  confess,  too  apt  to  promise  beyond  their  means." 

"  So  passionate." 

"  But  BO  forgiving." 

"  So  extravagant" 


THE    WOOING    AND    WEDDING. 


263 


"  So  very  hospitable." 

"  So  averse  to  English  settlers." 

"  About  as  much  as  we  are  to  Irish  ones." 

"  Averse  to  improvement,  then." 

"  Not  when  convinced  in  what  improvement  consists." 

"  Helen,  do  you  know  it  is  very  hard  to  convince  an  Irishman ;  he  has  so 
many  quips,  and  cranks,  and  puzzling  sayings,  and  would  prefer  being  reduced 
to  expedient,  to  attaining  anything  by  straightforward  means — provided  it  was 
not  too  troublesome." 

"  There  is  truth  in  all  that,"  replied  Helen,  thoughtfully,  "  and  no  good  will 
ever  be  effected  by  flying  in  the  face  of  their  prejudices ;  they  are  a  people  that 
must  be  led,  not  driven.  Preconceived  ideas  cannot  be  hammered  out  of  their 
heads — but  they  may  be  directed  to  other  objects ;  though  you  cannot  stop  the 
source  of  a  river,  you  may  turn  its  course  ; — but  yonder  is  Mark's  uncle,  Mr. 
Hacket,  coming  to  see  you.  I  must  not  forget  to  give  him  a  bumper  of  whiskey  ; 
not  ask  him, '  Would  he  rather  not  T  which  once  got  me  into  a  terrible  scrape. 
Dear  father,  farewell  for  a  little  time ;  and,  if  nothing  else  reconciles  you  to  Ire- 
land, remember  it  was  Mark's  wooing,  and  the  wedding  which  followed,  that 
made  your  Helen  happy." 


THE  FAIRY  OF  FORTH. 


E  of  Wexford,  though  we  have  the  advantage  of 
our  neighbours'  mountains,  as  terminations  to  our 
landscape,  have  but  one  that  we  can  call  our  own 
— the  mountain  of  Forth.  I  cannot,  with  all  my 
love  for  it,  style  it  handsome ;  though  it  is,  certainly, 
picturesque — rugged,  jagged,  rough,  and  rocky: 
and  I  remember  when  not  a  single  green  field,  or 
cultivated  plot,  was  to  be  seen  on  its  sides.  It  has 
undergone  changes. 

Year  after  year  I  have  watched  patches  of  oats, 
potatoes,  and   even   barley,  creeping    along,  and 
civilizing  its  sturdy  steeps  ;  while,  both  in  sheltered 
and  unsheltered  spots,  cottages  have  sprung  up — 
cottages,  filled  with  a  bold  race  of  mountain  "  squat- 
ters," who,  I  hope,  may  never  be  dispossessed  of 
the  "  estates"  obtained  by  their  industry. 
I  have  spent  some  happy,  sunny  hours  on  the  rocks  of  my  own  dear  moun- 
tain, looking  round  and  round,  and  climbing  from  crag  to  crag,  to  recognise  the 

(264) 


THE    FAIRY    OP    FORTH.  265 

dwellings  that  shelter  in  the  valley.  There  is  Johnstown  Castle,  embedded  in 
its  own  woods — the  gaily-waving  flag  on  its  highest  tower,  intimating  that  those 
who  "  possess  the  land,"  are  AT  HOME,  bestowing  blessings  on  all  around  them ! 
I  can  see  the  curling  smoke  from  the  trim  school-house,  and  fancy  Mr.  Shelly's, 
the  good  master's  face,  pale  and  anxious,  lest  his  pupils'  improvement  should 
not  keep  pace  with  the  wishes  of  his  liberal  patroness.  There  go  the  mottled 
deer,  in  the  noble  park,  scudding  right  over  the  mound  where  that  everlast- 
ing Oliver  Cromwell  is  said  to  have  reviewed  his  troops ;  there,  the  labourers' 
cottages,  clustered  like  honeycombs  in  the  thrifty  hive.  All  look  happy  and 
cheerful,  and  are  what  they  appear.  The  spire  of  the  little  church  of  Rathas- 
peck  is  clearly  defined  by  the  blue  sky ;  I  can  see  the  ruins  in  the  park,  and  the 
stream,  like  a  silver  thread,  where  the  mill's  revolving  wheel  turns  it  into  mimic 
foam 

There,  and  there,  and  there,  are  the  dwellings  of  resident  landlords,  or  pros- 
perous landholders,  mingled  with  the  venerable  castles,  which  form  so  distin- 
guished and  interesting  a  feature  in  the  character  of  the  county : — what  a  fine 
foreground  they  form  to  St.  George's  Channel — bearing  upon  its  waters  the  pro- 
duce of  many  lands ! 

Wexford  Harbour  looks  well  from  this  noble  eminence ;  and  it  is  impossible 
not  to  regret  that  the  ever-shifting  sands  form  such  a  barrier  to  the  utility  of  so 
beautiful  an  object. 

How  snugly  the  Barony  of  Forth  farmers  shelter  in  their  comfortable  houses ! 
— their  barns  are  spacious,  and  their  hayricks  and  cornstacks  tell  of  abundance. 
The  Saltee  Islands  stand  fearlessly  amid  the  dashing  waves — and  the  far-ofF 
Tower  of  Hook  terminates  the  sea  view. 

It  is  a  noble  scene  ;  and  yet,  even  as  the  tiny  bird  seeks  its  own  nest  amid  the 
varied  beauties  of  the  grove,  so  do  I  seek  the  white  gables  and  green  trees  of 
my  childhood's  home.  Well,  I  need  look  no  longer ;  it  is  but  to  close  my  eyes, 
and  now  it  is  before  me — all — I  can  recall  the  chiming  dinner-bell — the  dear 
familiar  voices — passed  for  ever — all — even  the  old  house  dog's  bay — that  roused 
the  echoes  of  that  wild  sea-shore ! 

My  own  dear  home ! — What  home  can  ever  feel  like  the  sweet  home  of 
childhood  ? 

I  love  the  mountain  huts,  and  their  hardy  occupiers;  I  love  to  see  them 
descending  into  the  valleys  to  their  daily  labour,  and  climbing  to  their  homes 
at  night,  shouting  to  each  other,  or  chorusing  some  wild  Irish  ditty,  while  their 
children  leap  from  crag  to  crag  to  meet  them.  I  do  not  like  to  hear  them 
sneere'd  at — as  they  often  are — by  their  lowland  rivals.  I  own  they  may  be  a 
little  unpolished — perhaps,  fond  of  having  their  own  way — and  I  know  their  man- 
ners are  more  brusque  than  the  manners  of  the  men  of  the  plain  ;  they  deem  them- 
selves independent  freeholders — and  so  they  are ;  and  they  receive  you  with 
warm  hospitality  in  their  cottages,  if  you  brave  their  mountain  air,  as  I  have 
frequently  done — to  visit  them. 

Squatters,  from  every  barony  in  the  county ,  have  fixed  themselves  upon 
34 


266  THE    FAIRY    OF    FORTH. 

the  mountain,  and  do  not  relish  people  of  any  other  county  intruding  among 
them  :  how  they* existed  at  first  I  cannot  tell ;  a  family  must  have  made  the  poor 
man's  individual  labour  keep  them  all  from  starving  ;  but  now,  every  year,  I  can 
perceive  bit  after  bit  added  to  their  little  "  properties ;"  and  the  eagerness 
\vith  which  they  send  their  children  to  school,  and  the  interest  many  of  them 
take  in  agriculture,  lead  me  to  hope  that  the  next  generation  will  be  of  real 
value  to  the  country.  I  am  always  doubtful  as  to  whether  an  improvement 
\vill  be  adopted  if  it  be  only  practised  in  a  gentleman's  domain ;  the  people  are 
apt  to  say,  "  It  may  do  for  the  quality — but  not  for  us ;"  but  the  moment  one 
cottager  tries  a  new  plan,  and  it  succeeds,  his  poor  neighbours  are  anxious  to 
adopt  it  also.  "  I  never  would  have  believed,"  said  John  Merry — old  John 
Merry,  who  is  the  best  dog-breaker,  and  mountain  cottier,  in  the  county — 
"  that  the  green  crop  plan  was  a  good  one  for  the  poor,  if  I  had  not  seen  how 
well  Mr.  Pigeon  of  the  Red-houses  managed  it."  John  Merry  is  one  of  the  first 
mountain  "  settlers."  "  I  'm  as  good  as  a  grandfather  to  the  mountain,"  says 
John,  "  for  I  was  one  of  the  first  that  sat  down  on  it — a  young  man,  with  a  dark- 
haired  wife — and  every  hair  in  her  head  is  white  now." 
"  It  must  have  been  a  lonesome  place  then,  John." 

"  Faix,  it  was  mighty  lonesome  and  quair ;  and  shy  the  birds  and  foxes  looked 
at  us — as  if  they  thought  we  'd  no  right  to  it — natural  enough ;  and  as  to  the 
snipes,  when  they  came  back  after  their  divarshun  abroad,  ye  'd  think  the  wee 
black  eyes  would  drop  out  of  their  heads  at  seeing  the  curling  smoke,  and  smell- 
ing the  burning  turf  on  their  own  lands  !  Well,  I  've  often  thought  what  a  won- 
der it  was,  how  the  birds  in  the  air  found  the  road  in  the  heavens  to  wherever 
they  wanted  to  go  ;  and  I  've  asked  every  larned  gentleman  I  ever  came  across, 
how  it  was,  and  never  a  one  of  them  could  tell  me ; — it 's  mighty  strange," 
added  John,  "but  somehow,  about  the  growing  of  a  blade  of  grass,  or  the  flying 
of  a  bird — the  learned  people  know  as  little  as  a  poor  man." 

John  is  a  regular  specimen  of  a  mountaineer — fearless,  free,  daring,  and 
very  superstitious,  as  all  mountaineers  are ;  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to 
invent  a  story  of  fairy  or  spirit  beyond  his  belief.  He  glories  in  the  mountain, 
and  wonders  if  the  "  far  off  ones"  look  as  well  when  you  get  near  them  as 
his  own.  He  says  it  is  a  noble  thing  to  have  the  "  main  ocean"  always  before  a 
man's  eyes,  rowling  away  at  his  feet — that  it  makes  him  think  of  Eternity ;  and 
as  for  the  dogs,  the  mountain  air  and  education  are  the  best  to  strengthen  them 
in  wind  and  limb.  He  will  show  you  potatoes  not  larger  than  walnuts,  and 
tell  you  that,  though  they  're  not  big  of  their  age,  they  're  as  dry  as  bread,  and 
the  wholesomest  that  ever  grew ;  and  a  little  patch  of  green  stunted  oats  will, 
he  assures  you,  be  prime  corn  before  the  season's  over.  John,  heaven  bless 
him !  makes  the  best  of  everything,  and  looks  so  cheerful  in  his  coat,  which  is 
composed  half  of  tatters,  half  of  patches,  that  you  feel  assured  the  luxuries  of 
life  would  be  thrown  away  upon  him  ;  he  will  wipe  his  face  after  it  has  been 
battered  by  a  hail-storm,  and  smilingly  assure  you  it  is  "  no  ways  un- 
wholesome." I  was  told  that  John  "  had"  a  fine  "  legend"  of  the  mountain — 


THE    FAIRY    OP    FORTH.  267 

i/  he  would  tell  it  to  me ;  but  that  he  feared  I  would  laugh  at  it :  promising  to 
keep  my  countenance,  and  to  listen  attentively,  I  prevailed  on  him  to  "  show 
me  the  nature  of  it."  "  If  your  honour  will  only  just  walk  up  some  morning, 
and  see  the  grey  rocks  that  mark  the  place,  and  prove  there 's  no  deception  in 
it  whatever ;  there  's  the  very  stones  over  the  hole,  as  they  were  in  the  ancient 
times — and  if  ye  remove  them  rocks,  you  may  find  it  yourself,  though,  to  be 
sure,  if  ye  did,  you'd  meet  with  present  death." 

"  Couldn't  they  be  blown  up,  John  ?" 

"  Well,  there  now,  I  knew  it 's  laughing  at  me  you  'd  be,"  he  said,  looking 
seriously  displeased. 

"  Indeed,  John,  I  've  not  laughed." 

"  Sure,  ma'am,  it's  all  one,  if  you  talk  of  blowing  up;  the  powder's  not  made 
that  would  blast  them  rocks,"  added  John. 

"Indeed!"  I  said,  gravely:  and  John,  after  peering  very  suspiciously  at  me, 
bade  me  good  morning.  But  I  soon  found  my  way  to  his  mountain  home — no 
very  easy  undertaking,  though  the  path  he  declared  to  be  both  "  smooth  and 
wholesome."  Seated  on  a  fragment  of  stone,  a  few  days  after,  while  John 
eaned  on  his  staff,  and  every  now  and  then  recalled  to  his  side  the  half  puppies, 
half  dogs,  that  constituted  his  retinue,  John  confided  to  me  "  The  Legend  of  the 
Mountain  of  Forth,"  which  I  give  in  his  own  language : — 

"  Long  ago,"  he  began,  "  before  that  thieving  villain  of  the  world,  Oliver 
Cromwell,  bombarded  Wexford,  reviewed  his  Ironsides  in  Johnstown-park,  or 
left  his  ould  boots  behind  him  in  the  town  he  ill-treated — long  before  all  this, 
there  lived,  somewhere  up  here,  a  little  morsel  of  a  man,  with  a  white  head, 
and  a  dale  in  it,  by  the  name  of  Martin  Devereux.  White  Martin,  he  was 
called,  to  distinguish  him  from  every  other  of  the  Martins ;  and  they  called 
him  so,  because  his  hair  was  white,  you  see.  Well,  White  Martin  was  a 
cunning  hand,  entirely,  you  understand,  ma'am,  in  gathering  the  mountain 
dew;  and  whoever  wanted  it  in  the  valley,  used  to  tip  the  word  to  Martin; 
and  be  it  much  or  be  it  little,  they  were  sure  of  it — pure  and  fresh,  the  rale 
sort,  brewed  under  the  moonbeam,  that  neither  sun ,  nor  gauger  had  ever 
winked  at !" 

"  The  gauger !"  I  repeated. 

"  Ay,  just  the  gauger !  Sure  Queen  Elizabeth  brought  them  in  first ;  and, 
for  the  matter  of  that,  I  've  heard  my  mother  say,  that '  the  ould  sarpent  in  the 
garden  of  Alen  was  nothing  but  a  gauger  in  disguise.'  Well,  Martin  Devereux 
had  made  a  bargain  with  the  good  people,  what  the  quality  call  fairies,  who  had 
their  bits  of  stations  and  divarshuns  on  the  mountain,  that  he'd  not  only  let  them 
alone  nor  suffer  mortal  eye  to  look  at  them,  but  that  he  'd  give  them  as 
much  of  the  mountain  dew  as  they  'd  want  for  their  entertainments,  if  they  'd 
have  an  eye  to  his  interests,  you  understand,  and  not  let  any  of  the  wrong  sort 
come  upon  White  Martin's  bits  of  stills,  or  little  hiding-holes  ;  and,  to  be  sure, 
if  the  royal  family  of  the  good  people  had  fun  before  they  were  introduced  to 
Martin,  they  had  ten  times  the  divarshun  after,  because  of  the  spirits  he  put  into 


268  THE    FAIRY    OF    FORTH. 

them — the  whiskey.  There  was  more  fun  and  flirting  in  the  fairy  court,  than 
ever  was  known  before." 

"  And  was  there  no  fighting,  John  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  See  that !"  exclaimed  John,  triumphantly,  "  I  knew  how  you  'd  ask  that. 
Well,  indeed,  my  mother  said  they  used  to  kick  up  a  bobbery  now  and 
again,  about  one  thrifle  or  another ;  but  they  were  more  prudent  about  it  than 
poor  mortals,  like  ourselves.  Now,  no  one  ever  did  a  wiser  thing  than  make 
friends  with  the  good  people  ;  if  you  're  churning,  it 's  no  great  matter  to  leave 
a  drop  of  cream  in  the  keeler,  or  a  taste  of  fresh  butter  on  the  churn,  for  the 
innocent  things;  and,  if  you've  nothing  else  to  leave,  why,  leave  a  peeled 
potato  on  the  hearth-stone,  that  has  never  touched  salt,  and  they  take  the 
•will  for  the  deed ;  it 's  the  thoughtfulness  they  look  to,  and  you  '11  have  all  the 
better  luck  for  it  Now  you  see,  ma'am  (it 's  the  rale  truth  I  'm  telling 
you),  the  whole  county  was  fairly  riddled  with  excisemen,  and  gaugers,  and 
informers,  and  the  like — every  little  thing  that  could  brew  the  poor  Paddv's 
delight,  was  seized  throughout  the  country,  except  White  Martin's :  he  'd  lay 
down  to  sleep  in  the  thick  of  stills,  and  everything  else ;  the  gauger  would 
come  and  walk  over  them — ay,  may-be,  into  the  whiskey — and  neither  see  it 
nor  smell  it." 

«  Oh,  John !  is  that  possible  ?" 

"  Possible !  Don't  I  tell  your  honour  what  my  mother  told  me,  and  sure  it 
isn't  misdoubting  her,  or  me,  you  'd  be? — it's  as  thrue  as  that  the  sun  is  now 
shining  on  that  smoky  steam-boat  Oh,  then,  the  sea  has  never  looked  the  same 
since  they  came  on  it,  dirty  things — thrue  ?  Well,  they  'd  walk  into  it,  as  I 
tell  you,  and  the  deception  the  good  people  would  put  before  them,  would 
blind  the  sight  in  their  ugly  eyes,  and  they  'd  walk  out  again,  and  thrash  the 
informer  for  misleading  them.  Ever,  and  always,  after  that,  the  hulabaloo 
that  would  be  in  the  poor  man's  place  would  delight  your  ears  ! — such  music  ! 
and  always  they'd  have  the  same  piper;  and  my  own  great-grandmother  was 
up  in  the  mountain,  one  night,  helping  White  Martin  and  his  niece,  he  having 
a  great  venture  entirely  of  the  dew ;  and,  trusting  to  the  power,  as  well  he 
might,  that  had  freed  him  from  all  trouble  so  long,  he  drew  up  his  hogshead 
through  a  trap-door,  at  the  back  of  his  cabin,  and  gathered  some  blankets  over 
it,  like  a  tent,  and  filled  it  with  poteen,  ready  to  draw  off  for  the  neighbours, 
the  vale-boys,  that  would  be  up  for  it  before  day ;  and  the  two,  my  great- 
grandmother,  and  White  Martin's  niece,  got  ready  some  ducks  and  chickens 
for  the  Saturday  market ;  and  the  whole  of  them,  trusting  in  the  good  people, 
•went  peaceably  to  bed,  my  great-grandmother  sleeping  with  the  old  man's 
niece. 

"  In  the  thickness  of  the  night,  who  should  knock  at  the  door  but  the 
gauger !  '  Come  in,  and  welcome,'  says  a  voice,  the  very  moral  of  White 
Martin's,  while  he  lay  shaking  like  an  ague, — '  come  in ;  and  thankful  we  will 
be  to  see  any  good  creature,  for  we  're  all  at  the  last  gasp  with  the  small-pox.' 
Well,  my  great-grandmother  was  like  to  die  with  the  fright,  and  the  'cuteness 


THE    FAIRY    OF    FORTH.  269 

of  the  good  people,  for  the  gauger  was  a  beauty,  and  would  as  soon  have  put 
his  head  in  a  fiery  furnace,  as  into  where  the  small-pox  was  going.  Well,  in 
his  hurry  to  be  off,  he  clattered  down  the  mountain  like  a  troop  of  wild  horses ; 
and  then,  from  behind  the  hogshead,  came  such  a  hurraing  and  shillooi.ng,  that 
the  two  girls  were  mad  to  steal  out  to  see  who  it  was  made  the  noise ;  and  then, 
to  tempt  them  more,  came  the  finest  of  music ;  and  they  forgot  White  Mar- 
tin's bargain  with  the  good  people,  and  both  stole  out,  and,  looking  round 
the  hogshead,  they  saw  a  responsible  looking  piper,  playing  away  for  the  dear 
life — a  little,  round-faced  fellow,  piping  like  mad ;  and  they  could  have  looked 
at  him  all  night,  only  that  Martin  Devereux  pulled  them  away,  whispering 
about  his  agreement  to  let  the  good  people  come  and  go  without  observation : 
but  the  curosity  of  the  women  had  destroyed  White  Martin's  luck ;  for  the 
piper  spied  them,  and  such  a  hoorishing  and  whirling  as  there  was,  you  never 
heard  ;  and,  all  of  a  suddent,  a  voice  says — 

•  Your  bond  's  out,  White  Martin— 
Your  bond 's  out,  for  sartin.' 

"  The  next  night,  not  content  with  leaving  the  good  people's  allowance, 
he  made  them  some  punch — hot,  strong,  and  sweet;  but,  no:  in  the  morn- 
ing sorra  a  drop  was  touched,  and  there  stood  the  hogshead — not  one  of 
the  vale-boys  but  broke  their  appointment !  The  old  man  went  and  sa-t 
under  his  own  wall,  and,  as  he  sat,  who  should  he  see  toiling  up  the  moun- 
tain, but  the  same  blaguard  gauger !  '  I  'm  done  now,  any  way,'  he  says 
to  himself;  '  broke  horse  and  foot,  and  I'll  not  stir,  to  save  all  the  poteen  that 
ever  was  brewed,'  he  says ;  '  I  '11  deliver  myself  peaceably  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  law,'  he  says,  '  and  that 's  present  death,  at  the  very  least,'  he 
says ;  and  so,  like  some  great  saint,  or  martyr,  he  sticks  his  dudeen  between 
his  teeth,  with  the  determination  of  an  ould  Roman,  and  bruises  down  his 
cawbeen  over  his  eyes,  settled,  as  a  haro,  to  his  fate.  Now  the  gauger,  that 
was  counted  such  a  beauty,  was  nothing,  after  all,  but  a  yellow-legged  Shel- 
malier — a  sporting  fellow :  one  that  would  take  a  bribe  with  one  hand,  and 
betray  you  with  the  other — a  bould,  daring  fellow,  hiding  his  wickedness  with 
a  brazen  face,  which  half  the  world  mistake  for  plain  dealing ;  his  heart  would 

fit  on  my  thumb-nail ;  and  his  conscience- but,  as  he  never  found  out 

that  he  had  one,  I  don't  see  why  posterity  should  bother  about  it.  If  the 
Rogue's  March  was  played  at  his  funeral,  it  paid  him  a  compliment.  Now 
this  gauger  had  a  wife  of  his  own  at  home,  who  was,  for  all  the  world,  like  a 
Buddaugh  cow — one  that  goes  about  with  a  board  on  her  forehead,  to  keep  her 
from  destroying  the  world ;  and,  between  the  pair  of  them,  the  country  was 
ruined  intirely. 

"  Now  the  Shelmalier  was  very  fond  of  making  love  to  every  girl  that  would 
let  him  ;  but,  above  all  the  girls,  the  one  that  hated  him  most  was  White 
Martin's  niece;  and,  while  poor  ould  White  Martin  had  given  himself  up 
to  his  pipe  and  his  prayers : — '  Keep  up,'  says  a  voice  ;  '  keep  a  good  heart ; 


270  THE    FAIRY    OF    FORTH. 

though  you  can't  manage  the  women,  I  can  manage  the  men  !' — and,  pushing 
his  hat  from  over  his  left  eye,  who  should  he  see  by  his  side,  but  his  own 
niece  that  frightened  the  piper,  and  she  dressed  up  to  the  nines,  smiling 
like  a  basket  of  chips,  and  beckoning  to  the  Shelmalier  to  make  haste  up  the 
mountain ! 

" '  Get  in,  you  huzzy,'  says  the  heart-broken  craythur ;  '  where 's  your  modest 
bringing  up  ? — and  what 's  come  over  you  at  all  ?' — and  he  made  a  blow  at  her 
with  vexation. 

" '  Don't  offer  to  touch  me,'  she  says,  waving  her  arm  above  him  ;  and,  sure 
enough,  White  Martin  could  no  more  stir  from  where  he  was  sitting,  than  the 
Saltees  could  move  up  this  ancient  ould  mountain  — '  come  on,'  she  says  to  the 
Shelmalier  gauger ;— *  come  on,  and  I'll  show  you  every  tub  he  has  :  come  on — 
darling.' 

"  Well,  the  tears  rolled  down  the  poor  man's  face,  to  think  his  sister's  child 
should  ever  be  so  shameless ;  but  he  had  no  power  over  himself  to  speak  or 
move.  Well,  the  Shelmalier  came  on,  grinning  and  smirking ;  and,  sure 
enough,  she  showed  him  every  hole  and  corner ;  while  poor  little  White  Martin 
sat  shivering  and  chattering  his  bits  of  teeth,  until  the  dudeen  he  hadn't  the 
power  to  remove,  was  crunched  into  forty  pieces. 

"  '  You  're  a  beauty,'  he  says  ;  '  and  upon  my  honour,  you  shall  be  my  second 
wife ;  but  give  me  a  kiss,'  he  says,  '  on  account.' 

"  '  Wait  till  I  've  earned  it,'  makes  answer  the  brazen  slut ;  '  I  've  only  showed 
you  the  first  gathering  of  his  unlawful  practices.  You  think  you  've  seen  a 
deal ;  why,  that 's  nothing ;  yon  is  his  great  hiding-hole !'  and  with  that  she 
points  to  the  very  rocks  your  honour  is  sitting  under  at  this  minute,  only  they 
weren't  in  the  same  place,  but  standing  quite  silent  and  grand  at  either  side  of  a 
little  cave. 

"  '  You  don't  mean  to  say,'  inquires  the  gauger,  '  that  he  has  more  poteen 
there?' 

"  '  She  knows  very  well !'  shouted  White  Martin, '  that  I  never  was  in  that 
cave  in  all  my  life,  because  it's  a  blessed ' 

"  '  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  if  you  please,  good  man  ?'  she  interrupts,  '  and 
not  disgrace  your  grey  hairs  with  such  lies !' 

"  '  Oh !'  thought  the  poor  man,  '  how  deceitful  is  the  world ! — My  own  sister's 
child,  that  I  reared  up  as  my  own,  and  trusted  with  all  I  had  in  the  world, — 
for  whom  I  was  adding  one  halfpenny  to  another,  and  who  knew  no  other 
father ; — to  turn  on  me  in  my  old  age !'  And  the  poor  old  man's  tears  flowed 
over  his  white  beard — more  for  sorrow  at  the  girl's  ingratitude,  than  the  ruin  of 
his  little  property. 

"  She  never  heeded  his  trouble,  but  walked  on  with  the  gauger,  until  just  by 
the  rocks,  there  were  two  or  three  geese  grazing,  and  they,  seeing  the  gauger 
— (all  living  birds  and  beasts  know  them  by  what 's  called  instinct) — took  to 
running,  one,  one  way — another,  another,  and  one  flew  into  the  cave.  '  Follow 
her !  follow  her !'  shouts  the  girl,  and  so  he  rushes  on,  like  the  March  wind, 


THE    FAIRY  OF   FORTH.  271 

after  the  goose.  '  Well  run !'  she  cries ;  '  what  handsome  legs  you  have  !'  and 
he  runs  the  faster.  '  Look  to  the  wild  goose  chase  !'  she  says  again.  '  Look  ! 
look !  look !'  and,  while  White  Martin  could  hardly  see  clear  for  the  blind- 
ing tears  that  gushed  from  his  eyes,  he  still  saw  enough  to  prove  that  the  girl 
stooped,  and,  snatching  up  a  '  bouclawn,'  that  grew  at  her  feet,  she  waved  it 
in  the  air,  and,  as  she  did,  one  rock  fell  over  the  other,  and  closed  up  the  cave, 
as  it  is  closed  to  this  day : — then,  turning  to  White  Martin,  she  waved  her  hand 
to  him,  and  he  started  to  his  feet,  and,  as  he  did,  his  own  rale  niece  stood 
beside  him ;  and  when  he  looked  for  her  who  had  taken  her  shape,  she  was 
gone !"  • 

"  And  in  old  times,"  I  inquired,  laying  my  hand  upon  one  of  the  stones,  which, 
according  to  Martin,  had  been  so  miraculously  removed,  "  was  this  a  cave,  or 
a  passage  ?" 

"  A  passage,  made  by  them  tarnation  thieves  of  the  earth,  the  Danes,  up  from 
Ferry  Carrig  Bridge,  under  the  water ;  and  that  was  the  fun  of  it ;  for,  when 
the  goose  got  to  the  end  of  the  passage,  she  swam  away ;  but  some  say  the 
gauger  was  drowned,  others,  that  he  stuck  fast,  and  is  to  stick  fast  in  it,  to  the 
end  of  the  world  ;  and  when  the  eacho  of  the  wind  and  thunder  is  heard  from 
the  bowels  of  the  earth,  about  here,  there  are  people  that  will  tell  you  it 's  the 
sporting  gauger,  hunting  the  wild  goose ;  but  I  don't  believe  that  myself  all  out, 
because," — added  John,  with  the  air  of  a  philosopher,  who  piques  himself  upon 
his  superior  intelligence, — "  because  it 's  contrary  to  reason." 


THE  RAPPAREE. 

RUE  for  ye,  ma'am  dear,  it  is  smoking  up  to  the 
nines,  sure  enough,  but  it's  by  no  manner  o'  manes 
unwholesome,  more  particularly  at  this  season,  when 
it 's  so  could ;  it  will  clear,  my  lady,  in  a  minute — see, 
it 's  moving  off  now." 

"  Moving  up,  you  mean,"  replied  the  young  lady  to 
whom  this  speech  was  addressed,  and  whose  eye  fol- 
lowed the  thick  and  curling  smoke  that  twisted  and 
twisted,  in  serpent-like  folds,  around  the  blackened 
rafters  of  "  Mr.  Corney  Phelan's  Original  Inn," — so, 
at  least,  the  dwelling  was  designated  by  the  painted 
board  that  had  once  graced  it,  but  now  played  the  part 
of  door  to  a  dilapidated  pig-sty.  Again,  another 
volume  folded  down  the  chimney,  for  so  the  orifice 
was  termed,  under  which  the  good-tempered  and  rosy 
Nelly  Clarey  was  endeavouring  to  kindle  a  fire,  with 
wet  boughs  and  crumbling  turf.  The  maid  of  the  inn  knelt  before  the  unmanage- 
able combustibles,  fanning  the  flickering  flame  with  her  apron,  or  puffing  it  with 

(272) 


THE    RAPPAREB.  273 

her  breath ;  the  bellows,  it  is  true,  lay  at  her  side,  but  it  was  bereft  of  nose 
and  handle.  "  Poor  thing,"  she  said,  compassionately,  "  it  wasn't  in  it 's  na- 
lur  to  last  for  ever;  and  sure,  master's  grandmother  bought  it  as  good  as  thirty 
years  ago,  at  the  fair  of  Clonmel,  as  a  curosity,  more  nor  anything  else,  as  I 
heard  say." 

"  Are  you  sure,"  interrogated  the  young  lady,  after  patiently  submitting  to  be 
smoke-dried  for  many  minutes — "  are  you  sure  that  the  flue  is  clear  ?" 

"Is  it  clear,  my  lady  !  Why,  then,  bad  cess  to  me  for  not  thinking  of  that 
before! — sure  I've  good  right  to  remember  thim  devils  o' crows  making  their 
nesteens  in  the  chimbley  ;  and  it 's  only  when  the  likes  o'  you  and  yer  honour- 
able father  stop  at  the  inn,  that  we  light  a  fire  in  this  place  at  all." 

She  took  up  the  wasting  candle,  that  was  stuck  in  a  potato,  in  lieu  of  a  can- 
dlestick, and,  placing  a  bare  but  well-formed  foot  on  a  projecting  embrasure 
near  the  basement,  dexterously  catching  the  huge  beam  that  crossed  the  chim- 
ney with  her  disengaged  hand,  swung  herself  half  up  the  yawning  cavern, 
without  apparently  experiencing  any  inconvenience  from  the  dense  atmosphere. 
After  investigating  for  some  time,  "  Paddy  Dooley  ! — Paddy  Dooley !"  she 
exclaimed,  "  come  here,  like  a  good  boy,  wid  the  pitchfork,  till  we  make  way 
for  the  smoke." 

"  I  can't,  Nelly  honey,"  replied  Mister  Paddy  from  a  shed  that  was  erected 
close  to  the  "parlour"  window,  "  arn't  I  striving  to  fix  a  bit  of  a  manger,  that 
his  honour's  horses  may  eat  their  hay,  and  beautiful  oats,  dacently,  what  they  're 
accustomed  to — but  Larry  can  go." 

"  Larry,  avourneen  !"  said  Nelly,  in  a  coaxing  tone,  "  do  lend  us  a  hand  here 
wid  the  pitchfork." 

"  It's  quare  manners  of  ye,  Nelly, — a  dacent  girl  like  ye,  to  be  asking  a  gen- 
tleman like  me  for  his  hand  (Larry,  it  must  be  understood,  was  the  backer  and 
wit  of  the  establishment),  and  I  trying  for  the  dear  life  to  rason  wid  this  ould 
lady,  and  make  her  keep  in  the  sty;  she's  nosed  a  hole  through  the  beautiful 
sign." 

"  Bad  luck  to  ye  both !"  ejaculated  Ellen,  angrily ;  "  F 11  tell  the  masther, 
so  I  will,"  she  added,  jumping  on  the  clay  floor,  her  appearance  not  at  all 
improved  by  her  ascent.  "  Masther,  dear,  here 's  the  boys  and  the  crows,  after 
botherin'  me;  will  ye  tell  them  to  help  me  down  with  the  nest? — the  lady's 
shivering  alive  with  the  could,  and  not  a  sparkle  of  fire  to  keep  it  from  her 
heart." 

"  Don't  you  be  after  botherin'  me,  Nelly,"  replied  the  host ;  "  but  I  ax 
pardon  for  my  unmannerliness,"  he  continued,  coming  into  the  room — his  pipe 
stuck  firmly  between  his  teeth,  and  his  rotund  person  stooping,  in  a  bowing 
attitude  to  Miss  Dartforth— "  sure  I  '11  move  it  myself,  with  all  the  veins  o'  my 
heart,  to  pleasure  the  lady  at  any  time ! — Give  us  a  loan  of  the  pitchfork, 
Larry." 

"  To  tell  God's  truth,  master,  it 's  broke,  and  the  smith — bad  luck  to  him  ! 
— forgot  to  call  for  it,  and  little  Paddeen  forgot  to  lave  it — but  here 's  the 
35 


274  THE    RAPPAREE. 

shovel  '11  do  as  well,  and  better  too,  for  it 's  as  good  as  a  broom,  seeing  it 's  so 
neatly  split  at  the  broad  end."     "  The  master"  took  the  shovel,  not  angrily,  as 
an  English  master  would  have  done,  at  such  neglect ;  but  taking  for  granted 
that  a  shovel  would  do  as  well  as  a  pitchfork,  or  a  broom,  or  anything  else, 
"  when  it  came  asy  to  hand,"  and  perfectly  well  satisfied  with  Larry's  ingenuity. 
He  poked,  and  poked,  up  the  chimney,  while  Ellen  stood  looking  on  at  his 
exertions,  her  head  upturned,  her  ample  mouth  wide  open,  displaying  her  white 
teeth  to  great  advantage.     Presently,  down  came  such  an  accumulation  of  soot, 
dried  sticks,  clay,  and  disagreeables,  that  Nelly  placed  her  hands  on  her  eyes, 
and  ran  into  the  kitchen,  exclaiming  "  that  she  was  blinded  for  life ;  while  the 
young  lady,  half  suffocated,  followed  her  example,  and  left  "  mine  host  of  the 
public"  to  arrange  his  crows'  nests  according  to  his  fancy.     The  kitchen  of  an 
Irish  inn  (not  an  inferior  place  of  public  accommodation — but  what  would  be 
termed  in  England  a  "  posting  house"),  at  the  period  of  which  I  treat,  would 
now  be  considered  as  a  more  befitting  shelter  for  a  tribe  of  Zingari,  than  for 
Christian  travellers ;  it  was  a  room  of  large  dimensions,  and  high  elevation,  with 
an  earthen  floor  worn  into  many  inequalities,  and  an  enormous  hole  in  the  roof, 
directly  over  where  the  fire  was  placed,  through  which  the  smoke  escaped, 
after  hanging,  as  it  were,  in  fantastic  draperies  around  the  discoloured  apart- 
ment.    A  massive  bar  stood  out  from  the  wall,  against,  or  nearly  against,  which 
the  fire  was  lighted,  and  from  it  were  suspended  sundry  crooks  and  nondescript 
chains,  fitting  for  the  support  of  iron  pots  and  such  cooking  vessels  as  were  put 
into  requisition,  when  "  quality"  stopped,  either  from  necessity  or  for  refresh- 
ment, in  the  wild  and  mountainous  district  where  resided  Mr.  Corney  Phelan ; 
indeed,  the  house  was  frequented  more  by  farmers'  drovers  endeavouring  to 
conduct  wild  mountain  sheep  to  the  markets  of  Waterford,  or  even  Dublin  (and 
I  have  now  in  my  possession  some  old  family  memoranda,  which  state  the  price 
paid  for  such  animals,  at  that  time,  to  have  been  two  shillings  and  sixpence  per 
head),  and  persons  in  that  sphere  of  life,  than  by  such  gentry  as  Mr.  Dart- 
forth,  who  travelled  in  his  own  carriage,  and  with  a  suitable  number  of  attend- 
ants ;  he  was  a  rich  landed  proprietor,  a  justice  of  the  peace,  and  M.  P.  for  the 
county  town.     It  may  be  readily  supposed  that  the  arrival  of  persons  of  rank 
was  a   matter  of  importance,  and  that  some  preparations  were  made  in  the 
"  parlour,"  as  it  was  called,  while  the  worthy  magistrate  occupied  himself  in 
inspecting  the  accommodation  provided  for  his  horses  in  the  out-houses.     The 
animals  had  undergone  much  fatigue,  for  the  gentleman  and  his  daughter  had 
journeyed  from  Dublin ;  and  when  he  drew  near  the  dwellings  of  some  of  his 
principal   tenants,  he  had  called  upon   them,  as  "  gale  day"  was   passed,  to 
collect  his  rents.     The  roads  leading  to  those  dwellings  had,  in  many  instances, 
been  rendered  heavy,  and  nearly  impassable  by  the  rains ;  the  horses  were 
almost  foundered  ;  and,  although  within  a  few  miles  of  home,  it  was  found  im- 
possible to   proceed  without   giving  them  some  hours'  rest.     Miss  Dartforth, 
with  the  cheerfulness  and  good-nature  so  charming  in  females  of  every  age, 
accommodated  herself  to  circumstances,  took  off  her  hat,  and,  having  in  vain 


THE   RAPPAREE.  275 

sought,  with  the  ken  of  a  laughing  blue  eye,  for  what  a  woman,  however  old 
and  ugly,  would  fain  see  in  every  room — a  looking-glass — shook  back  her 
clustering  tresses,  which  twined  in  wild  luxuriance  over  her  graceful  form : 
then  partially  unclasping  a  silver-laced  riding-habit,  she  made  her  way  amid 
•  five  or  six  barelegged  "  helpers,"  some  dozens  of  various-sized  pigs,  fowl,  and 
collies,  to  a  three-legged  seat  near  the  fire,  close  to  a  petted  white  calf,  that  had 
established  itself  very  quietly  on  a  "  lock  of  straw,"  in  the  most  comfortable 
portion  of  the  apartment.  She  then  commenced  leisurely  investigating  the 
whims  and  oddities  of  the  assembly ;  and  the  smiles  that  occasionally  separated 
her  full  rich  lips,  showed  she  was  an  amused  spectator  of  the  melange.  Every- 
thing appeared  in  confusion ;  the  landlady,  whose  mob  cap  was  trimmed  with 
full  and  deep  lace  of  no  particularly  distinguishable  colour,  bustled  about  in 
a  loose  bed-gown  of  striped  cotton,  beneath  which  a  scarlet  petticoat,  of  Dutch 
dimensions  stuck  forth :  she  was  the  only  female  in  the  establishment  who 
luxuriated  in  shoes  and  stockings — the  former  were  confined  on  the  instep,  by 
rich  silver  buckles ;  and,  though  she  occasionally  sat  with  much  state  behind  a 
soiled  deal  board,  which  presented  a  varied  assortment  of  drinking  measures, 
and  was  garnished  at  either  end  by  kegs  of  whiskey,  yet  did  she  keep  a  neces- 
sary, and  not  silent  surveillance  over  the  movements  of  the  various  groups. 
Some  idea  of  her  conversation,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  her  observations 
(for  she  never  waited  for  a  reply),  may  be  gathered  from  the  following : — 

"  Miss  Dartforth,  my  lady ! — (Mary  Murphy,  will  ye  never  finish  picking 
the  few  feathers  off  that  bird  ?)—  my  lady,  I  humbly  ask  yer  pardon  on  account 
of  the  smoke,  and — (Nelly  Clarey,  Nelly  Clarey,  may-be  it 's  myself  won't  pay 
you  off  for  your  villany ;  don't  tell  me  of  the  crows;  what  do  I  give  you  house- 
maid's wages  for,  but  to  look  after  my  best  sitting-rooms  ?) — Miss  Dartforth, 
ma'am,  is  that  baste  (the  calf  I  mane)  disagreeable  to  ye  ? — it 's  a  pet,  ye  see,  on 
account  of  its  being  white — quite  white,  Miss,  every  hair — and  lucky — Billy 
Thompson,  ye  little,  dirty  spalpeen !  will  ye  have  done  draining  the  glasses  into 
yer  well  of  a  mouth  ! — it 's  kind,  father,  for  ye  to  be  afther  the  whiskey,  yet  I  '11 
trouble  ye  to  keep  yer  distance  from  m£  counter — Corney  Phelan,  it  'ud  be 
only  manners  in  ye  to  take  the  doodeen  out  o'  yer  teeth,  and  the  lady  to  the 
fore  ;  I  remember  when  ye  'd  take  it  out  before  me — why  not  ? — the  day  ye 
married  me,  dacency  and  dacent  blood  entered  yer  barrack  of  a  house,  and 
made  it  what  it  is,  the  most  creditable  inn  in  the  country — Peggy  Kelly,  ye  're 
a  handy  girl,  jump  up,  astore,  on  the  rafters,  and  cut  a  respectable  piece  of 
bacon  off  the  best  end  of  the  flitch — asy — asy ! — mind  the  hole  in  the  wall, 
where  the  black  hen  is  sitting — there,  just  look  in,  for  I  'm  thinking  the  chickens 
ought  to  be  out  to-morrow  or  next  day — Larry,  ye  stricken  devil !  have  ye 
nothin'  to  do,  that  ye  stand  chuck  in  the  doorway  ?^-are  ye  takin'  pattern  by  yer 
master's  idleness — he  that  does  nothin'  from  mornin'  till  night  but  drink  whiskey, 
smoke,  sleep — sleep,  smoke,  and  drink  whiskey  1 — Oh  !  but  the  heart  within  me 
is  breakin'  fairly  with  the  trouble — bad  cess  to  ye  all! — there's  the  pratees 
boilin'  mad  !  and  the  beef! — I  '11  rid  the  place  of  the  whole  clan  of  ye — for  it's 


276  THE   RAPPAREE. 

head,  hands,  and  eyes  I  am  to  the  entire  house — ye  crew  !"  &c.  &c. — And  the 
eloquent,  burly  lady  sprang,  with  the  awkward  velocity  of  a  steam-carriage, 
towards  the  fire-place,  oversetting  everything  in  her  way,  to  ascertain  how 
culinary  affairs  were  proceeding  in  two  large  iron  vessels,  round  which  the 
witches  in  Macbeth  might  have  danced  with  perfect  glee — so  deep,  and  dark, 
and  fitting  did  they  seem  for  all  the  purposes  of  incantation. 

Much  amused,  the  young  lady  patted  the  calf,  which  looked  into  her  face 
with  the  unmeaning  innocence  of  expression  that  characterizes  the  animal; 
and,  as  she  stooped  to  conceal  the  smiles  excited  by  Mistress  Corney  Phelan's 
anger,  the  loosened  tresses  fell  over  her  brow  and  eyes;  their  re-adjustment 
occupied  a  few  moments — but  when  she  looked  up  she  saw  a  woman  seated 
opposite  to  her,  whom  she  certainly  had  not  before  noticed,  and  who  she 
thought  it  very  strange  should  have  escaped  her  observation;  her  dress  bespoke 
the  mendicant,  and  she  eagerly  stretched  her  bony  and  muscular  hands  over 
the  blazing  turf  fire ;  her  frame  appeared  chilled  by  the  cold  of  a  keen  October 
evening  that  was  fast  closing — for  her  cloak  remained  fastened,  and  even  the 
hood,  that  perfectly  concealed  her  features,  was  unremoved ;  Miss  Dartforth 
could  not  help  remarking  that  the  cloak  was  much  longer  than  is  usually  worn 
by  Irish  beggars,  and  the  foot  which  projected  from  beneath  its  ample  folds 
was  covered  by  a  substantial  brogue.  Once,  and  once  only,  the  fugitive,  but 
expressive,  glance  of  a  wild,  bright  eye  met  hers,  and  the  idea  that  somewhere 
she  had  before  encountered  a  similar  look  possessed  her  imagination.  While 
she  was  endeavouring  to  remember  the  where  and  the  when,  her  father  entered, 
attended  by  one  or  two  of  his  servants,  and  accompanied  by  a  relative,  who, 
according  to  the  miserably  dependant  feeling,  that,  I  regret  to  say,  is  not  yet 
banished  from  my  country,  played  clerk,  toady,  whipper-in,  understrapper,  or 
what  you  please,  to  his  patron,  who  afforded  him  bed,  board,  washing,  clothes, 
and  shooting ;  kindly  requiring,  in  return,  that  he  should  act  as  affidavit-man 
on  all  occasions  (particularly  when  he  recorded  wonderful  stories),  and  laugh 
invariably  at  his  jests : — "  Time  out  of  mind  such  duties  wait  dependance." 
The  justice  was  a  free-hearted  man,  frank  and  violent,  good-natured  and  ob- 
stinate, a  talker  of  patriotism,  a  practiser  of  tyranny,  and  fonder  of  his  pretty 
daughter,  Norah  Dartforth,  than  of  his  hounds,  his  hunters,  or  even  his  landed 
interest.  It  was,  however,  a  well-known  and  accredited  tale  that  he  had 
broken  his  wife's  heart  by  frequent  fits  of  violence ;  or,  more  properly  speaking, 
he  had  frightened  her  out  of  the  world  while  in  the  prime  of  youth,  and  delicate, 
lily-like  loveliness ;  he  then  took  an  oath,  which,  I  believe,  he  religiously  kept, 
that  he  never  would  get  into  a  rage  with  his  daughter.  This,  nevertheless,  did 
not  prevent  his  getting  into  passions  with  others,  and,  indeed,  his  life,  as  must 
always  be'  the  case  where  anger  is  indulged  in,  was  a  round  of  sins  and  repent- 
ances. The  county  report  went  on  to  say  that  there  was  one  error  he  more 
sorrowed  over  than  the  rest  :— 

Sometime  after  his  marriage,  disappointed  in  not  being  blessed  with  an 
heir  to  his  estate,  he  adopted  a  boy  of  singular  talents  and  beaut}',  whose 


THE    RAPPAREE.  277 

parents,  humble  and  industrious  cotters,  died  of  malignant  fever,  near  his 
avenue  gate ;  this  boy  he  cherished  with  all  a  father's  love  and  tenderness,  and 
even  the  birth  of  a  daughter,  after  the  lapse  of  many  years,  did  not  appear  to 
diminish  the  affection  he  entertained  for  the  interesting  youth.  Unfortunately, 
over-indulgence  nurtured  a  proud  and  daring  spirit,  which,  by  different  man- 
agement, could  have  been  tamed  to  the  gentle  and  ennobling  duties  of  life. 
The  boy  grew  in  beauty,  and  increased  in  talent ;  but  he  also  became  imperi 
ous  and  overbearing;  even  if  Mr.  Dartforth  and  his  gentle  lady  were  inclined 
to  make  allowances  for  his  wayward  fancies  and  insolent  actions,  the  very  hum- 
blest serf  on  his  domain  was  loud  in  complaints  of  the  parvenu's  tyranny ;  and 
the  worthy  man,  who  had  obstinately  persisted  in  a  new-fangled  idea,  which 
he  had  imbibed  from  some  of  the  French  authors  of  the  period — that  the 
human  mind  was  of  itself  perfection,  and  that  there  were  no  impulses  given  that 
needed  restraint — persevered  in  his  "  system,"  as  he  called  it,  until  the  im- 
petuous James  brought  himself  under  the  strong  arm  of  the  law,  by  an  open 
act  of  violence,  directed  against  one  of  his  protector's  brother  magistrates, 
which,  but  for  the  interposition  of  powerful  friends,  would  have  banished  him 
the  country.  It  would  have  been  better,  perhaps,  had  the  law  been  suffered, 
at  that  time,  to  take  its  course.  He  returned  home  with  an  insulted,  but  un- 
subdued, spirit,  and  the  remonstrances  of  his  well-meaning  but  ill-judging 
friend  were  heard  with  visible  symptoms  of  impatience.  The  voice  of  reproof 
sounded  harshly  on  the  ear  that,  for  eighteen  summers,  had  listened  to  nothing 
but  the  honeyed  accents  of  praise.  In  an  evil  hour,  when  both  were  heated  with 
that  noxious  spirit — of  which  I  cannot  sufficiently  express  my  detestation,  having 
too  often  witnessed  its  baneful  and  pernicious  effects — words  terminated  in 
blows ;  Mr.  Dartforth  struck  his  protege,  and  the  other,  whose  tiger  spirit  could 
ill  brook  such  an  insult,  hurled  his  almost-father  to  the  earth.  It  is  but  too  pro- 
bable that  murder  would  have  terminated  the  disgraceful  scene,  had  not  Norah, 
roused  from  her  light  and  innocent  slumbers  by  the  fearful  noise  of  the  unna- 
tural combat,  rushed  between  them,  and  in  an  instant,  her  soft,  but  energetic 
voice  awoke  the  intemperate  youth  to  a  sense  of  his  crime  and  ingratitude ;  the 
remembrance  of  the  insult  inflicted,  was  effaced  by  a  sense  of  the  evil  he  had 
done,  and  he  humbled  himself,  even  to  the  dust,  at  Mr.  Dartforth's  feet.  Then 
was  the  moment,  when  his  heart  and  feelings  could  have  been  caught  on  the 
rebound,  but  the  wrathful  and  intoxicated  man  cursed  the  stripling  in  the  mad- 
ness of  his  rage — it  was  a  deep,  a  bitter,  an  irrecallable,  curse — that  made  the 
maiden's  warm  blood  run  cold  in  her  veins,  and  withered  the  heart  of  the  unfor- 
tunate victim  of  intemperate  passion.  Pale,  trembling  with  varied  emotion,  he 
crouched,  for  a  moment,  beneath  the  ban — then  rising,  as  the  young  wolf-hound 
from  his  lair,  without  a  word,  a  groan,  or  a  tear — without  even  an  adieu  to  her 
\vho  had,  regardless  of  her  own  interest,  often  palliated  his  faults — he  left,  for 
ever,  the  halls  that  had  sheltered  his  childhood. 

Great   as   James's  faults    certainly  were,  it  was   said    that   Mr.   Dartforth 
secretly  blamed  himself  for  the  result ;   but  even  Norah  was  interdicted  from 


278  THE    RAPPARBE. 

mentioning  the  name  of  the  once  favoured  boy,  who,  it  was  believed,  had  quitte  J 
the  country  for  some  far  distant  land.  There  were,  however,  many  who  as- 
serted that,  after  Patrick  James  had  left  Mr.  Dartforth,  "  his  honour  had  never 
been  rightly  his  own  man ;"  and,  indeed,  it  was  evident  to  all  that  his  temper 
and  habits  had  not  improved  since  his  protege  had  absconded. 

As  the  magistrate  seated  himself  on  a  chair,  which  the  bustling  landlady 
officiously  presented  him,  next  to  his  gentle  and  affectionate  child — "  his  heart's 
darling,"  as  he  termed  her,  in  the  warm  language  of  Irish  phraseology,  that 
daughter  thought  she  had  never  seen  her  father's  cheek  so  pale,  or  his  eye  so 
rayless. 

"  Dear  father  !"  she  exclaimed,  pressing  her  left  cheek  to  his,  "  sit  at  the  oppo- 
site side,  I  will  move  with  you — you  are  chilled,  but  there  you  will  be  quite 
shielded  from  the  draught  of  the  door." 

"  Make  way  for  yer  betthers,  honey !"  screamed  the  landlady  in  the  ear  of 
the  mendicant,  who  did  not  seem  inclined  to  relinquish  her  seat  to  "  the 
gentry ;"  a  very  unusual  thing  in  Ireland,  where  so  much  outward  homage  is 
rendered  to  the  aristocracy.  "  Good  woman,"  interposed  Miss  Darlforth, 
coming  up  to  her,  and  placing  her  hand  gently  on  her  shoulder,  "  will  you 
oblige  me  by  exchanging  seats,  as  my  father  suffers  by  the  draught  from  which 
your  cloak  protects  you  ?" 

The  beggar  rose,  and  leaning,  as  if  from  excessive  weakness  or  fatigue,  on 
her  staff,  crossed  over  to  the  other  side,  at  the  same  time  muttering  some  faint 
words,  which  neither  father  nor  daughter  could  comprehend. 

"  Is  the  woman  deaf  and  dumb  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Dartforth,  angry,  perhaps,  at 
her  tardiness  of  motion. 

"  She 's  as  good — just  then  as  good  as  the  one  and  t'  other,"  replied  the 
backer,  coming  forward,  dexterously  managing  so  as  to  make  his  crutch  supply 
the  place  of  his  lost  leg.  "  She 's  an  afflicted  crathur — God  presarve  us  ! — but 
harmless,  and  's  under  a  vow  never  to  let  the  hood  fall  off  her  head,  in  rain  or 
sunshine — heat  or  cold — night  or  day ;  and,  what 's  more,  never  to  lay  side  on  a 
bed  for  the  next  seven  years.  Oh  !  there  's  a  power  o'  holiness  about  her,  plaze 
yer  honour." 

"  I  suppose  she  has  committed  some  dreadful  crime,  for  which  the  religion 
you  believe  in  requires  such  atonement  ?" 

"  Crime  !  the  crathur  ! — bless  ye,  no  :  she  's  as  innocent  o'  crime,  or  passion, 
or  anything  o'  that  sort,  as  yer  honour.  Och !  no — the  poor  thing's  heart  aches 
for  the  sins  o'  the  world,  she  wishes  to  ease  'em." 

"  A  female  crying  philosopher !"  observed  Mr.  Dartforth  to  his  daughter. 

"  And  yet  there  is  something  that,  under  other  circumstances,  would  be  called 
philosophy,  about  it,"  replied  Norah;  "how  often  is  it  that  situation  and  influ- 
ence command  the  homage  which,  at  first  sight,  appears  paid  to  the  virtue,  not 
the  person !" 

"  Miss  Norry,  you  are  growing  too  wise  for  me,"  said  the  male  toady,  who 
was  called,  by  his  associates,  "  Swallow-all  Dick ;"  by  his  superiors,  "  Dick  ;" 


THE    RAPPAREE.  279 

and  by  his  inferiors  (meaning  those  who  honestly  worked  for  their  living), 
"  Mister  Dick."  He  stood,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  before  the  fire,  to  the 
manifest  inconvenience  of  all  engaged  in  preparing  the  anticipated  meal. 

"  What  a  wonder  that,  is,  to  be  sure  !"  muttered  Lame  Larry,  "  as  if  you  were 
one  who  could  shoe  the  goslins,  catch  a  weasel  asleep,  or  spit  a  sunbame." 

"  Has  there  been  much  news  stirring  lately — I  mean  during  my  absence?" 
inquired  Mr.  Dartforth  addressing  Larry,  who  certainly  was  the  most  intelligent 
person  of  "  the  Original  Inn." 

"  Only  a  few  more  of  Freney's  tricks  playing  here,  and  there,  and  every- 
where, plaze  yer  honour." 

"  The  rascal !  has  any  one  yet  discovered  who  he  is,  or  where  he  came 
from  ?" 

"Lord,  no,  sir ! — a  body  might  as  well  hunt  and  catch  a  leprechawn  as  him  ; 
did  yer  honour  hear  how  he  sarved  the  judge  and  jury,  at  the  ferry  o'  Mount 
Garrett?  Well,  ye  see,  there  was  a  lot  of  fire-arms  he  wanted  to  get  over; 
and  the  boatman  tould  him  as  how  he  daren't  let  him  pass,  in  rason  that  the 
judge  was  going  to  cross  in  the  coorse  of  the  day,  and  his  people  were  keepin' 
the  boat.  •  Is  that  all  ?'  says  Freney,  says  he — the  blue  eye  dancin'  out  of  his 
head  wid  scorn,  at  the  little  wit  o'  the  boatman ;  and  he  goes  his  way.  Well, 
jist  as  the  judge,  and  all  the  law  and  the  justice  in  the  country — (yer  honour's 
glory  was  out  of  it -at  the  same  time,  ye  know,  so  it  didn't  take  up  much  room) 
— the  law  and  the  justice  all  packed  tight  and  comfortable  in  the  boat,  as  need 
be — up  comes  a  poor  blind  ould  crathur  of  a  man — seemingly  as  dark  as 
dungeon,  leadin'  a  baste  with  a  load  o'  brooms  on  his  back.  '  Och,  my  misery !' 
says  the  ould  crathur — setting  up  a  pulhalew  that  'ud  reach  from  this  to 
Bantry, — '  and  it 's  I  '11  be  too  late,  God  help  me !  and  miss  the  market.'  Well, 
yer  honour,  for  once  the  judge  listened  to  marcy — and  a  poor  man  the 
pleader.  'Come,  honest  friend,'  says  he,  '  we'll  make  room  for  you,  and  yer 
baste  can  swim  over.'  '  God  mark  ye  to  glory,'  says  the  ould  man,  '  but  what  '11 
I  do  with  my  brooms  ?'  '  Lay  'em  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,'  says  the 
judge  ;  and  they  all  got  over  comfortable  together.  Well,  when  they  reached 
the  other  side,  sure  as  life  there  was  a  whole  troop  of  the  redcoats,  waiting  to 
cross  the  contrary  way.  'What  are  ye  after?'  says  the  judge.  'Plaze  yer 
lordship,'  replied  the  sargent,  'we've  just  heard  that  the  daring  rascal,  Freney 
is  over  the  water,  with  fire-arms,  and  combustibles,  and  contrivances  enough  to 
blow  up  ould  Ireland,  and  murder  it  intirely  ;  and  that  he  wants  to  get  to  this 
side,  and  waylay  and  destroy  every  mother's  son  at  the  'sizes  ;  so  we  're  going 
to  stop  him.'  '  God  bless  ye  for  that  same  !'  said  the  ould  crathur  of  a  man, 
setting  his  brooms  on  his  baste  at  the  same  time ;  '  it  was  only  yesterday  that 
the  rapparee  took  every  fardin'  I  had  in  the  world — and  only  left  me  these  few 
screeds  o'  clothes;  and  if  he's  let  go  on  that  way,  neither  gentle  nor  simple  will 
be  alive  in  the  country,  this  day  three  months.'  '  Could  ye  describe  him  ?'  says 
the  judge.  '  He  's  a  good  portly  man,  to  my  seeing,'  made  answer  the  ould 
crathur.  '  Middling-sized — middling-sized,'  repeated  the  sargent,  stepping  into 


280  THE    RAPPAREE. 

the  boat ;  '  I  'd  know  him  ten  miles  off,  if  the  devil  himself  set  him  a  maskin.' 
The  ould  man  gave  a  chuck  of  a  laugh,  and  off  wid  him,  after  making  his  oba- 
dience,  mannerly,  to  the  great  gentlemen — and  the  boat  and  the  soldiers  towed 
away  for  the  other  side :  and  the  judge  and  grandees  gothered  themselves  up, 
quite  stylish-like,  on  the  horses  that  were  waitin'  for  them — and,  by  the  time  they 
•were  settled,  from  the  top  almost  of  the  hill  that  ye  mind  is  so  overgrown  with 
osiers,  and  all  kinds  of  creepin'  bushy  herbs,  came  a  loud,  wild  laugh — and  they 
looked  up,  one  and  all — and  sure  enough,  there  was  a  sight  to  frighten  the 
lories ! — every  plant  seemed  grown  into  a  livin'  man,  with  a  musket  on  his  arm, 
by  way  of  a  shoulder-knot :  and  '  Freney's  brooms  are  the  brooms  that  'II 
sweep  clean !'  shouted  one  fellow.  « Our  brave  little  commander  for  ever !' 
roared  another:  and  then  Freney  himself  stepped  upon  the  ancient  grey  rock 
at  the  top  of  all,  and  wavin'  his  hat,  with  the  air  of  a  raale  nobleman,  he  bowed 
to  the  company  below.  '  I  '11  find  an  opportunity  of  returnin'  yer  lordship's 
civility  ;  and  you  or  yours  shall  never  be  harmed  by  me  or  mine,'  says  he;  '  and 
I  hope  you  won't  forget  Freney  and  the  ferry  o'  Mount  Garrett.'  Well,  before 
ye  could  say  '  Cork !'  there  were  the  osiers  waverin'  in  the  wind,  so  innocent- 
like,  and  the  men  gone,  as  a  whiff  o'  smoke;  only,  as  the  grandees  passed  up  the 
bank,  wild,  cheerful  laughter  onct  or  twict  broke  on  their  ear.  And,  may -be, 
the  sargent  and  his  lobster's  weren't  dancin'  mad  in  the  boat  with  fair  spite,  jist 
over  the  way :  and  they  forced  the  boatman  to  tow  about,  and,  somehow  or 
other,  as  he  was  turnin',  the  vessel  upset ;  and  such  scramblin'  and  clawin'  as 
they  had  to  get  safe  ashore — and  their  ammunition  all  wet,  and  their  firelocks 
spoilt ;  and  then  they  would  have  it  the  boatman  did  it  a-purpose,  and  swore 
they'd  baygnot  him;  the  poor  fellow  was  frightened — why  not?— and  got 
away  out  of  their  reach,  just  in  time  to  save  his  life. 

"  But  that's  nothin'  to  the  escape  he  had  not  long  since,  when  he  hid  in  a  hay- 
rick, and  seven  soldiers  passed  him,  and  every  one  prodded  the  rick  with  their 
baygnots ;  and,  every  time  they  did,  it  went  into  him  ;  for  all  that,  sorra  a  stir 
did  he  stir,  only  stud  it  out  like  a  Trojan." 

"  He  has  had  a  great  many  escapes  by  flood  and  field,  papa ;  I  feel  quite  in- 
terested for  him  ;  he  is,  I  have  heard,  brave  and  generous,  and  particularly 
attentive  to  females,"  observed  Norah. . 

"  Ay  girl ! — you  are  like  the  rest  of  your  sweet  sex ;  give  a  man  a  charac- 
ter for  bravery,  and  no  matter  whether  he  be  brigand,  or  soldier,  or  rapparee, 
you  are  all  ready  to  defend  his  cause;  and  my  life  on't  if  this  Freney,  this 
cut-throat,  received  womankind  recruits,  the  bushes  would  be  covered  with 
cast-off  drapery." 

"Dear  papa,  he  is  no  cut-throat — no  single  deed  of  blood  is  registered 
against  him ;  and  the  instances  I  have  heard  of  his  charity,  taking  from  the 
rich  to  give  to  the  poor,  bestowing,  even  from  his  own  purse  to  clothe  the 
naked,  and  feed  the  hungry,  have,  I  confess,  interested  me  in  his  fate ;  I  do  not 
feel  the  least  afraid  of  him." 

"  Nor  never  need,  Miss,  my  lady,"  observed  the  bocher,  bowing,  "  I  '11  answer 


THE    RAPPAREE.  281 

for  it,  that  James  Freney  'ud  spill  the  best  drop  of  his  heart's  blood  for  one  smile 
from  yer  sweet  face  ;  sure  he 's  every  inch  an  Irishman." 

"  You  know  him  then  ?"  inquired  Miss  Dartforth,  smiling  and  blushing — for  I 
dare  not  deny  the  fact  that  all  women  like  a  delicately-turned  compliment,  even 
from  a  bocher. 

"  I  can't  say  but  I  've  seen  him,"  replied  the  man,  shifting  off,  at  the  same 
time,  to  the  other  end  of  the  kitchen.  It  must  not  be  imagined  that  this  dia- 
logue had  proceeded,  even  thus  far,  without  sundry  interruptions  from  worthy 
Mistress  Cornelius  Phelan,  who  was  all  bustle  and  anxiety  at  the  impropriety 
of  such  visiters  dining  in  the  kitchen;  'and  sure  the  parlour  was  cleared,  and 
but  little  smell  o'  smoke  in  it  now,"  &c.,  &c.  Both  gentlemen  and  lady,  how- 
ver,  persisted  in  their  determination  not  to  enter  the  "  crow's  nest,"  as  Norah 
laughingly  called  it ;  and  the  table  was  accordingly  set  in  the  centre  of  the 
kitchen,  and  covered,  if  not  with  elegant,  certainly  with  substantial,  fare ; — 
boiled  fowl,  enormous  nondescript  masses  of  beef,  "  neatly  boulstered  up," 
to  use  Mrs.  Phelan's  terms,  with  fine  white  cabbage  and  English  carrots; 
potatoes,  of  course,  were  not  wanting ;  and  the  travellers  were  too  hungry  to  be 
fastidious.  Miss  Dartforth,  who  never  forgot  the  wants  of  others,  heaped  a 
plate,  after  the  Irish  fashion,  with  meat  and  potatoes,  and  before  her  own  dinner 
was  ended,  turned  to  present  it  to  the  mendicant,  but  to  her  surprise,  the  woman 
had  disappeared  as  mysteriously  as  she  had  entered  !  She  was  about  to  express 
her  surprise  at  this  circumstance,  when  Nelly  Clarey  (who,  blooming  under  a 
cap  which,  in  some  degree,  confined  her  clustering  hair,  and  was  ostentatiously 
garnished  with  cherry-coloured  ribands,  stood  behind  her  chair  to  the  manifest 
annoyance  of  Mr.  Dartforth's  old  servant,  who  always  claimed  the  privilege  of 
waiting  personally  upon  "  his  young  lady"),  touched  her  arm,  whispering,  at  the 
same  time,  "  For  God's  sake,  never  heed  her." 

The  October  evenings  in  Ireland  are  damp  and  dreary;  nor  have  they  the 
uniformly  clear  sunsets,  or  invigorating  atmosphere,  which  characterize  the 
farewell  summer  month  in  England.  The  weeping  skies  of  Ireland  have  become 
almost  proverbial ;  but,  even  while  they  weep,  they  smile — apt  emblem  of  the 
happily  volatile  temperament  of  a  people  who  have  suffered  much,  and  suffer 
still.  I  learned  in  early  youth  to  love  the  quickly  closing  evenings  of  autumn, 
and,  at  times,  delight  more  in  rain  than  in  sunshine.  I  must  however,  resume 
the  thread  of  my  narrative,  and  mention  that,  at  about  the  distance  of  a  hundred 
or  a  hundred  and  twenty  yards  from  the  hag-yard,  which  flanked  the  inn  on  the 
north,  and  protected  it  from  the  cold  winds,  ran  a  long  wall,  intended  originally 
as  a  division  between  the  farms  of  two  brothers  who  had  sacrificed  their 
property  in  litigation,  and  died  at  last  poor  and  penniless — the  one  in  a  distant 
land,  where  he  had  been  sent  by  the  offended  laws  of  his  country ;  the  other  in 
a  jail.  The  wall  was  called,  by  the  country  people,  "  the  brother's  ban,"  and  a 
good  deal  of  superstitious  feeling  attached  to  it.  Many  of  the  stones  had  fallen 
to  the  earth,  and  over  them  the  gay  green  weeds  had  triumphed,  while  others 
showed  dimly  in  the  moonlight,  and  might  have  been  easily  converted,  by  the 
36 


282  THE    RAPPAREE. 

magic  of  imagination,  into  things  of  living  and  mysterious  form.  A  few  stunted 
elms,  with  here  and  there  a  dark  poplar,  waved  gently  in  the  chill  evening  air ; 
and,  although  the  laugh  and  wassail  sounds  of  the  inn  talkers  and  revellers 
called  to  remembrance  the  proximity  of  human  habitation,  yet  the  undefinable 
dreariness  of  the  spot  was  increased,  rather  than  broken,  by  the  shadows  of  two 
persons,  in  earnest  conversation,  the  one  passing  rapidly  backwards  and  for- 
wards with  a  firm,  undaunted  step — the  other  halting,  or  rather  hopping  after 
the  superior,  endeavouring,  in  vain,  to  keep  pace  with  him,  yet  bearing  his  rapid 
strides  and  impatient  temper  with  extraordinary  good  humour. 

"Fine  times,  to  be  sure,  they  must  be  wid  ye,  when  ye  let  a  good  seven  hun- 
dred— I  dare  say  goold — hard  goold — slip  through  yer  fingers  as  asy  as  kiss  my 
hand  ;  the  boys  'ill  never  stand  it — how  could  they  ?"  observed  the  lame  one. 

"Not  stand  it!  What  the  devil  do  you  mean,  Racket — when  there  is  not  an 
ounce  of  brains  among  a  troop  of  them  ?"  Why,  Breen  himself  dare  not — ay — 
I  say  dare  not,  dispute  my  will  in  anything." 

"  May-be  not ;  but  I  know  he  looked  mighty  black  when  I  tould  him  ye  meant 
that  ould  Huncks  to  get  home  scot-free." 

"  Black !  did  he  1  I  wish  I  had  seen  him.  I  tell  ye  Hacket,  his  gold,  if  I 
touched  it,  would  blister  my  fingers  —  it  would  kindle  hell's  own  fire  within 
my  heart.  For  fifteen  years  I  eat  of  his  bread — and  even  his  own  child,  that 
creature  whose  pure  and  spotless  hand,  not  two  hours  since,  rested  on  my 
shoulder — (it  was  like  a  dove  seeking  repose  on  a  hawk's  wing) — even  when 
that  child  was  born,  the  same  shelter,  the  same  smile  was  mine.  Blessed  Vir- 
gin !"  he  continued,  striking  his  forehead  violently,  "  you,  a  poor  dismem- 
bered, blighted  creature,  can  understand  that  you  couldn't  tear  the  hand  that 
fed  ye." 

"  It  was  a  pity,"  replied  the  bocher  (for  my  readers  have  doubtless  discovered 
that  Larry  and  Hacket,  are  one  and  the  same  person),  while  a  cold  sarcastic 
smile  overshadowed  the  usually  good-natured  expression  of  his  countenance,  "  a 

inurderin'  pity  that  ye  didn't  think  of  that  when  ye ye  had  the  little  row." 

JTe  would  have  said, "  when  ye  struck  him  to  the  earth;"  but  in  the  dim  light  he 
marked  James  Freney's  eye  flashing  upon  him,  and  he  finished  his  sentence, 
modified  even  as  it  was,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

The  unhappy  young  man  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments,  while  the 
rapidity  of  his  pace  increased.  At  length  Hacket  ventured  to  observe  that  the 
gang  had  lately  been  very  discontented  with  his  liberality — particularly  to 
Lady  Duncannon,  whose  money  he  had  returned,  merely  because  her  husband 
•was  not  with  her,  and  even  refused  to  take  her  watch  set  with  diamonds, 
which  they  considered  robbing  them  of  lawful  plunder.  "  Ay,"  he  said,  mourn- 
fully, "it  is  ever  thus:  as  well  might  the  lordly  lion,  that  I  have  read  of,  mate 
•with  the  base-born  ass,  that  brays  at  the  moon,  as  one  of  gentle  breeding  assimi- 
late with  such  a  set — but  I  am  a  fool  to  talk  thus  to  you,  Hacket — and  worse 
than  a  fool  to  have  chosen  such  a  life  ;  but  the  die  is  cast,  and  I  am  a  dreaded, 
degraded  outlaw,  whose  miserable  bones  will,  one  of  these  days,  rattle  on  a 


THE    RAPPAREE.  283 

gibbet,  in  the  March  winds,  and  scorch  there  in  a  July  sun — while  you — you 
Hacket — my  poor  mother's  only  relation,  will  be  the  sole  living  thing  to  shed  a 
tear  in  remembrance  of  him,  who,  instead  of  his  own  honest  name,  was  called 
James  Freney." 

"  No  such  thing,"  replied  the  bocher,  notwithstanding  his  habits  and  associa- 
tions, much  moved  at  feelings,  which,  although  he  could  not  enter  into,  he  could 
sympathise  with,  simply  because  they  affected  one  whom  he  sincerely  loved,  not 
merely  for  the  sake  of  kith  and  kin,  but  from  mingled  and  undefined  sensations. 
"  No  such  thing ;  you  '11  live,  and  make  a  fortune,  and  get  the  pardon.  Sure,  you 
never  harm  anything  to  death,  arid  are  so  complaisant  to  the  ladies,  that  a  wo- 
man's mob  'ud  save  ye,  if  ever  it  came  to  that.  Ye  may  be  a  lawyer  yet ;  I'm 
sure  ye  understand  a  dale  more  about  it  than  the  half  of  'em."  The  compliment 
fell  unheeded  on  the  ear  of  the  rapparee,  who  observed : 

"  You  gave  my  positive  instructions  to  Breen,  that  all  were  to  pass  safe  ?" 

"  I  did,  though  I  thought  it  mighty  foolish ; — for  just  look  here,  now — the 
ould  justice  owes  ye — sure  it 's  not  trusting  to  seven  or  eight  hundred  pounds 
of  his  money  ye  'd  be,  if  ye  'd  remained  wid  him  1  Didn't  he  breed  ye  up  for 
his  heir  ?  Isn't  a  promise  a  debt  ? — and  there  can  he  no  harm  in  taking  what 's 
one's  own." 

"  I  tell  ye  what,  Hacket,  if  all  the  saints,  and  priests,  and  bishops,  and  the 
blessed  Virgin  herself,  were  to  absolve  me  the  next  minute,  I  would  not — I  could 
not ! — There 's  the  share  I  had  out  of  the  Waterford  merchants,  that  troublesome 
job ;  why  half  the  plunder  now  is  hid  up  and  down  the  country,  in  bog-hole's 
and  brier-knocks ;  but  my  share  they  shall  have  of  that,  and  of  anything  else 
going.  A  kind  commander  I  have  ever  been,  an4  mean  to  remain ;  but  I  will 
be  their  COMMANDER  while  my  brain  has  strength  to  frame  a  resolution,  or  my 
finger  power  to  draw  a  trigger." 

"Well — well — yer  heart's  set  upon  it,  agra!  enough  said;  for,  as  I  live,  the 
ould  justice  is  on  the  move.  I  see  Nelly  Clarey  herself,  pokin'  out  with  the 
candle,  lookin'  for  me  ;  and  Paddy  Dooley,  too ;  and  the  sarvin'-men — the  over- 
fed, poor  porpoises,  crawlin'  about ; — but,  Captain,  dear,  ye  '11  never  be  able  to 
get  your  horse,  Beefstakes,  out  of  the  back  shed,  unknownst,  while  them  lazy 
animals  are  loungin',  doin'  nothin,  at  all,  at  all." 

"  Too  true,"  replied  Freney,  evidently  much  annoyed  at  this  information.  "  I 
meant  to  have  been  off  before  them." 

"D'ye  hear  that  girl  screaming  '  Larry' like  a  skirl-a-white  ?  Choke  ye, 
a'n't  I  going  !"  Larry  moved  several  steps  towards  the  farmyard  ;  then,  as  if 
remembering  something  particular,  returned,  and  said,  "  Mister  Captain,  I  jist 
wanted  to  tell  ye  that  I  fancied,  may-be,  ye  were  throwin'  a  sheep's-eye  after 
Nelly ;  now,  I  've  always  had  a  mind  to  that  girl,  myself.  Ay,  ye  may  clap  a 
sneer  on  yer  handsome  face,  if  ye  like ;  but  though  I  own  to  the  loss  of  the 
limb,  I  'm  no  bad  fellow  to  look  at  when  the  disguise  is  off,  and  a  tidy  bit  of  a 
wooden  leg  on  :  there  's  a  time  for  all  things  ;  and  I  know  you  'd  never  think 
of  her  as  your  wife;  but  I  tell  ye,  that  barefooted  lass  deserves  honourable 


284  THE    RAPPAREE. 

tratement ;  and  it  would  be  what  /  don't  deserve,  let  alone  her,  to  have  her  head 
turned  for  nothin'  at  all,  but,  may-be,  to  make  her  an  open  shame  before  the 
whole  country ;  so  let  her  alone,  and  for  once  take  a  fool's  advice."  The 
backer  swung  off  towards  the  rude  stables,  leaving  the  rapparee,  captain  of 
one  of  the  most  daring  gangs  that  ever  infested  the  country,  in  an  irritated 
and  melancholy  frame  of  mind.  He  folded  himself  up  in  the  long  blue  cloak 
that  had  served  to  conceal  his  person  at  the  inn,  and  ruminated,  as  he 
reclined  against  the  mouldering  wall,  on  the  uncertainty,  and  waywardness  of 
what  he,  in  his  blindness,  designated  FATE. 

"  There  is  a  bitterness  in  man's  reproach, 

Even  when  his  voice  is  mildest,  and  we  deem 
That  on  our  heaven-born  Freedom  they  encroach, 

And  with  their  frailties  are  not  what  they  seem ; 
But  the  soft  tones  in  star,  in  flower,  or  stream, 

O'er  the  unresisting  bosom  gently  flow, 
Like  whispers  which  some  spirit  in  a  dream 

Brings  from  her  heaven  to  him  she  loved  below, 
To  chide  and  win  his  heart  from  earth,  and  sin,  and  woe." 

Freney,  the  robber  and  the  outlaw,  felt  the  reproving  voice  from  "  star,  and 
flower,  and  stream  ;"  and  the  brief  vision  of  one  who,  had  he  conducted  himself 
with  common  propriety,  might  have  been  the  cherished  and  respected  wife  of 
his  bosom,  sent  many  a  bitter  pang  of  self-reproach  through  his  aching  heart ; — 
he  contrasted  what  he  was,  with  what  he  could  have  been ;  few  are  there  who 
can  bear  so  miserable  a  retrospect  unmoved. 

He  had  seen  Norah  Dartforth  not  an  hour  before,  and  the  remembrance  of 
her  surpassing  loveliness  pressed  upon  his  imagination,  in  gentle  but  firm  oppo- 
sition of  the  efforts  he  made  to  obliterate  her  image  from  his  memory.  Poor 
Nelly  Clarey,  whom,  with  Irish  recklessness,  he  had  often  jested  with,  forgetting 
the  impression  such  conduct  might  make  upon  a  thoughtless,  but  not  a  heartless 
girl — in  his  present  refined  mood  now  appeared  a  coarse  and  vulgar  creature  ; 
and  he  felt  more  angry  with  Hacket,  for  the  insinuation  he  had  thrown  out 
about  her,  than  for  any  other  portion  of  his  remonstrance.  At  length,  overcome 
with  contending  feelings,  he  rested  his  head  against  one  of  the  huge,  white  stones 
I  have  before  mentioned ;  and  even  while  he  watched  the  flitting  lights  in  the 
inn-yard,  sleep  steeped  his  eyes  in  forget  fulness. 

"Captain,  dear,  what  ails  ye?"  were  the  kindly  sounds  which  awoke  him 
to  consciousness.  "  Lord  save  us !  jist  at  the  very  minute  whin  all  the  wit  ye 
have  in  the  world  is  most  wantin',  to  find  ye  sleepin'  in  this  unlucky  place,  in 
the  could  moonlight,  and  not  lookin'  a  taste  like  yerself.  Rouse,  Captain,  honey  ! 
or  those  ye  wish  well  to  '11  be  the  worse  for  it."  y 

The  robber  eagerly  and  anxiously  inquired  what  the  young  woman's  words 
portended. 

"  Whisht — asy !"  exclaimed  Nelly,  in  a  low,  confidential  tone  ;  "  sure  they 
think  I  'm  asleep  ;  for  you  don't  look  to  me  sensible  that  it 's  close  upon  eleven  ; 


THE    RAPPAREE.  285 

and  the  mistress's  tongue  itself  is  quiet  a  good  hour  agone  ;  and  the  gentry  set 
off  afore  nine ;  and  there 's  more  hot  foot  after  them,  than  you  'd  have  a  mind  to, 
I  'm  thinkin'." 

"  Nelly,  for  God's  sake,  come  to  facts  at  once,  or " 

"  I  will ;  sorra  a  word  I  ha'  said  that  wasn't  as  true  as  gospel — but  let  me 
tell  it  my  own  way.  1  heard  ye  say  to  Larry  (the  poor,  concealed  crature !) 
that  ye  wanted  most  particular  to  see  Breen ;  well,  for  sartain  sure,  the  backer 
tould  him  so,  for  he  has  been  skulkin'  about  the  place  all  day ;  but  instead  of 
coming  to  the  fore,  I  noticed  him  hidin'  and  pokin'  more  like  a  grasnogue  than 
a  Christian.  Well,  ye  see,  I  went  out  about  the  stables,  jist  to  cool  myself, 
after  the  cookin',  and  the  flurry  o'  dinner,  and  the  quality,  and  all ;  and,  some- 
how, my  light  (though  I  made  a  screen  for  it,  with  a  cabbage  leaf),  went  out 
just  at  the  minute  I  thought  o'  fodderin'  the  cow,  the  craythur,  that  the  boys 
don't  half  mind  ;  so,  knowin'  she  doesn't  like  to  be  'woke  of  a  suddent,  I  went 
asy  to  the  door,  and  jist  as  I  was  goin'  to  pull  out  the  kipeen  (not  that  the  door 's 
much  good,  on  account  of  the  gap  in  the  wall),  I  hard  Breen  in  low  discourse 
wid  another  man,  that  I  'd  no  knowledge  of  in  life ;  and  he  went  on  for  to  tell 
him  how  unreasonable  ye  war'  in  regard  o'  takin'  a  turn  out  o'  the  ould  gentle- 
man's money ;  and  how  he  wouldn't  listen  to  no  such  thing — but  purtend  to  you, 
whin  it  was  all  over,  that  it  was  nothin'  but  a  misunderstanding  and  down-face 
the  looker  that  he  said  one  thing,  when  to  the  hearin'  of  my  two  ears  the  poor 
thing  said  the  direct  contrary." 

"  The  villain !  —  the  double-dealing,  mean-spirited  villain !"  ejaculated 
Freney. 

"Ye  may  say  that,"  responded  Nelly,  "But  wait  awhile  till  ye  know  all. 
'  I'm  sartain,'  says  t'other  man, '  that  the  captain  '11  take  to  the  road  after  them, 
by  way  of  purtection,  for  he  has  a  suspicion  over  you,  when  anything  like  this 
is  stirrin';  and  ye  know  there's  not  one  o'  the  boys  'ud  disobey  the  captain.' 
'  I  'm  sure  he 's  for  the  road,'  says  Breen,  '  for  Hacket  tould  me  Beefstakes  was 
in  the  same  cow-shed,  at  the  back,  as  my  Slasher ;  and  more  betokens,  at  the 
right-hand  side.'  'And  a  noble  pair  o'  bastes  they  are,'  remarks  t'other;  'but 
Beefstakes  is  terrible  knowin',  and  sorra  a  harm  it  would  be  to  put  a  peg  to  his 
speed  for  to  night.'  '  What  do  you  mean  ?'  says  Breen.  '  Bathershin,'  makes 
answer  the  strange  man,  '  you  don't  know — why,  just  run  a  nail  up  the  fetlock, 
— sure  it 's  only  an  accident,  and  nobody  the  wiser.'  " 

"  The  cold-blooded  scoundrel !"  muttered  the  captain  between  his  firmly-set 
teeth,  "  the  noble  horse  that  has  so  often  saved  my  life  !" 

"  Well,  they  coshered,  and  coshered,  so  asy,  I  couldn't  make  out  the 
words,"  persisted  Nelly,  "  only  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  was,  that  the  stranger 
was  to  go  and  lame  the  beast  at  once  ;  and,  as  they  couldn't  get  the  animals 
out  while  the  sarvents  were  about  the  house,  jist  wait  till  they  were  gone , 
and  then,  takin'  the  short  road  to  the  black  gap,  wait  there  for  the  company. 
May-be  ye  think  ye  have  it  all  yer  own  way — says  I ;  but  better  than  you 
have  got  into  the  wrong  box.  So  I  stole  off  asy — asy — under  shelter  of  the 


286  THE    RAPPAREE, 

wall,  till  I  cleared  the  corner,  and  then  away  with  me  in  a  whisk  to  poor 
Beefstakes.  And  what  do  ye  think  I  did  ?  I  minded  well  what  had  been 
said,  that  your  baste  was  on  the  right  side ;  so  I  jist  made  'em  change  places ; 
and,  my  jewel !  afore  you  could  clap  yer  hands — afore  I  could  make  way  for 
myself  to  get  out  o'  the  scrip  of  a  shed,  the  murderin'  black  villain  comes;  and 
sure  it 's  myself  was  afeard  of  the  horse's  heels,  and  I  scrudged  up  into  a  mere 
nothin'  right  under  Beefstakes'  legs.  And,  as  if  the  baste  knew  the  business, 
he  never  stirred  all  the  time  the  fellow  was  lamin'  his  own  animal.  Well, 
when  he  thought  his  job  finished,  captain,  honey,  he  skulked  off  with  himself 
like  an  exciseman ;  and,  as  asy  as  ever  I  could,  I  made  the  crathurs  change 
places,  again,  like  the  great  parliament  lords ;  and  ye  may  go  bail  it's  little  I 
heeded  fodderin'  the  cow,  though  she  turned  her  head  to  me,  nataral  as  a 
Christian :  and  knowin'  yer  saddle  was  particular,  I  changed  that  too ;  and 
God  sees  I  was  tremblin'  for  all  the  world  like  a  shakin'  bog,  till  I  got  out  o' 
the  place;  and  the  end  of  it  was — I  see  the  gentry  off;  and  Breen  wasn't 
long  behind— but  he  was  forced  to  go  asy  at  first,  on  account  of  the  road — the 
short  cut,  ye  know,  bein'  broke  up  wid  the  rain  ;  but  for  fear  he  'd  suspect  (for 
the  baste  must  fall  lame  when  he  puts  any  speed  upon  it),  I  thought  it  most 
prudent,  ye  see,  jist  to  lift  Beefstakes  out  o'  the  shed  intirely — and  so  I  led  him 
round  to  the  black  thorn  at  the  left,  by  the  gap,  in  the  corner.  And  now,  cap- 
tain, 'gra !  ye  may  think  as  ye  plaze — but  grim  as  ye  look  all  this  blessed  time, 

I  've  done  a  friendly  turn  for  you  and  the  baste — and " 

"  Grim  as  I  look !"  repeated  Freney,  his  gallantry  and  his  grateful  feelings 
both  rousing  to  meet  the  accusation;  "my  darling  Nelly,  I  never  loved  ye 
half  as  well  as  at  this  moment,"  he  continued,  energetically,  at  the  same  time 
imprinting  no  very  gentle  salute  on  her  lips.  Ellen  drew  the  back  of  her  hand 
across  her  mouth,  as  if  to  efface  the  kiss,  and  then  replied : 

"  Faigs,  Captain,  I  '11  not  say  that 's  a  lie,  and  yet  the  love  ye  talk  of  isn't  deep 
enough  to  smother  a  kitten;  I  see  as  plain  as  I  see  the  moon  in  the  heavens, 
that  I'm  not  the  sort  for  you  to  fix  honourable  love  upon — and  for  the  other  sort, 
I'd  scorn  it,  as  men  scorn  the  women  they  bring  to  shame:  I  didn't  think  so 
once,  may-be — (the  poor  girl's  voice  faltered),  but  I  see  this  day  the  raale  bame 
o'  love  from  under  yer  hood,  when  it  wasn't  at  me  ye  looked,  and  I  felt  the  differ ; 
— but  never  heed  it,  Captain,  aroon !" — and  she  drew  herself  up,  and  laughed  a 
light,  bravoing  laugh,  which  any  one  could  hear  came  from  the  lip,  not  the 
heart,  and  then  half  said,  half  sung,  the  old  stanza : 

M '  While  me  ye  thought  for  to  beguile, 
I  cared  for  another  all  the  while  : 
And  knew,  my  boy,  what  ye  were  at ; 
Och !  never  fear  but  I  spied  ye,  Pat ! 

Wid  yer  smiles, 

And  yer  wiles ! 
And  by  the  same  rule, 
Ye  think  every  girl  ye  meet  a  fool !' " 


THE    RAPPAREE.  287 

Freney  was  too  earnest,  too  occupied,  to  play  the  gallant  on  this  occasion ; 
and  contented  himself  with  observing,  as  he  hastened  towards  the  spot  where 
his  really  noble  animal  pawed  the  earth,  with  "  proud  impatience  of  ignoble 
ease :" — 

"  Well,  Nelly,  sweethearting  out  of  the  question,  you  have  acted  the  part  of  a 
true  friend,  which  by  God's  blessing,  I  will  never  forget  to  you  or  yours.  Save 
ye  !  my  brave  lass  !  The  head  and  the  heart  of  an  Irishwoman  are  always  ready 
when  wanting,  and,  faith,  that 's  more  than  can  be  said  of  the  men."  He  sprang 
lightly  into  his  saddle,  and  Beefstakes,  as  if  conscious  that  his  utmost  speed  was 
required,  used  well  the  freedom  of  the  loosened  bridle :  horse  and  rider  were 
soon  out  of  sight. 

What  the  feelings  of  Nelly  Clarey  were,  must  now,  for  ever,  remain  un- 
known, even  to  me,  her  faithful  historian ;  all  I  can  record  of  her  is,  that  she 
repeatedly  wiped  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  and  then  gazing,  only 
for  a  moment,  upon  the  spot  where  he  had  disappeared,  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh 
retraced  her  steps  to  the  miserable,  almost  roofless,  apartment,  in  which  her 
couch  was  spread,  and  where  she  soon  sweetly  and  tranquilly  slumbered,  as  if 
she  had  never  known  sorrow,  or  revelled  in  tears. 

I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  there  is  a  species  of — must  I  call  it  coquetry  ? — 
(I  do  not  mean  the  regular  coquetting  system  absolutely  taught  to  a  young  fe- 
male on  her  entrance  into  fashionable  life,  and  which,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
from  its  visible  arrangement,  is  perfectly  harmless,  and  not  unfrequently  decided- 
ly disgusting) — but  a  sort  of  natural  witchery,  born,  I  may  say,  with  every 
genuine  Irishwoman,  and  which,  in  the  cottages,  is  particularly  striking  and  fas- 
cinating. 

To  those  who  have  not  witnessed  it,  I  fea-r  any  description  would  appear 
unnatural,  simply  because  unknown ;  those  who  have,  must  be  heartless  if 
•they  have  not  felt,  and  do  not  remember,  its  charm.  I  cannot  think  it  over- 
strained to  call  it  the  coquetry  of  innocence,  for  in  it  there  is  neither  art  nor 
guile ;  it  plays  most  bevvitchingly  in  their  bright  and  beaming  smiles,  when 
they  blush  at  the  remembrance  of  their  earnest  and  heartfelt  laughter ;  and, 
though  a  young  Irish  girl  will  seldom  look  at  a  stranger,  except  "  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye,"  the  glance  has  nothing  sinister  or  suspicious  about  it,  but 
discourses  at  the  same  moment  modestly,  yet  frankly ; — it  is  as  apart  from 
French  flippancy  as  from  English  stiffness,  and  yet  partakes  of  the  gaiety,  but 
not  the  lightness,  of  the  former,  blended  with  the  reserve,  without  the  formality 
of  the  latter. 

Freney  pursued  his  course  towards  the  high  road,  and  murmured  within  him- 
self, in  no  gentle  terms,  at  the  impediments  in  his  way ;  the  by-path  was  little 
more  than  a  sheep-trail,  and  much  broken  by  heavy  and  continued  rains :  and, 
moreover,  the  moon  ("  pale,  inconstant  planet")  withdrew  her  light  just  at  the 
time  when  our  hero  required  it  most.  Beefstakes,  however,  knew  his  road  well, 
and  Freney  left  him  pretty  nearly  to  his  own  guidance,  content  with  now  and 


288  THE   RAPPAREE. 

then  encouraging  his  speed  by  some  kind  word  of  approbation,  or  an  occasional 
pressure  of  his  heel  against  his  flank.  The  road  they  had  taken  led  almost 
abruptly  to  the  top  of  a  wild,  uncultivated  hill,  or  rather  what,  in  England, 
would  be  denominated  a  mountain;  and,  as  the  animal  was  gaining  its  summit, 
his  master  heard,  or  fancied  he  heard,  the  report  of  a  gun  or  pistol ;  the  horse, 
too,  evidently  gave  tokens  that  the  well-known  sound  of  fire-arms  broke  upon 
his  ear,  for  he  snorted,  and  shook  his  head,  while  pressing  more  eagerly 
onward. 

Freney  suddenly  checked  the  rein,  and  leaning  completely  over  the  neck  of 
the  noble  animal,  seemed  as  if  inhaling  whatever  sounds  the  night  wind  bore  up 
the  hill ;  the  pause,  though  momentary,  was  long  enough  for  his  purpose :  he 
muttered  a  deep  low  curse,  too  fearful  for  repetition,  and  urged  the  impetuous 
animal  to  its  utmost  speed.  It  was  a  noble  steed,  and  cleared  every  impediment 
that  obstructed  its  progress,  vaulted  the  highest  enclosures,  and,  having  attained 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  snorted  the  combat  afar  off  as  he  dashed,  in  gallant  style, 
down  the  declivity,  with  distended  nostril  and  fire-striking  foot.  Fortunately 
the  moon  threw  a  full  and  glorious  flood  of  light  on  their  path,  so  that,  even 
in  the  distance,  Freney  distinctly  beheld  the  confirmation  of  his  fears,  and  the 
necessity,  had  it  been  possible,  for  redoubled  exertion.  The  ground  descend- 
ed steeply,  but  unevenly,  into  a  hollow  glen,  one  side  of  which  was  skirted  by 
stunted  and  straggling  brushwood,  that  fringed  what  was  called  the  carriage 
road,  while  the  other  sloped  down  to  a  sort  of  shingly  bottom  (the  black 
glen),  through  which  a  mountain  stream  brawled  angrily  and  restlessly  on  its 
way.  This  place  had  been  selected  by  Breen  as  the  most  fitting  for  his  pur- 
pose, and  at  the  moment  the  moon  shone  forth,  the  renegade  had  commenced 
rifling  the  carriage  of  Freney's  early  friend.  The  old  gentleman's  faithful 
servants  had  evidently  made  a  desperate,  and  not  a  bloodless  resistance;  and, 
as  the  captain  of  the  gang  neared  the  spot,  his  blood  boiled,  and  his  heart 
throbbed,  for  in  the  dim  light  he  beheld  Norah  Dartforth,  with  dishevelled 
tresses,  supporting  her  father  in  her  arms,  as  she  half  knelt,  half  reclined,  by 
the  way-side. 

The  group  was  one  that  Salvator  only  could  have  painted,  nor  would  it 
have  been  unworthy  of  his  pencil.  The  brightness  of  the  clear  full  moon, 
from  which  the  ill-omened,  scowling  clouds  were  rapidly  receding,  leaving  her 
alone  and  queen-like  in  the  purity  of  her  own  heavens  —  the  abrupt  and 
frowning  mountain,  glowering  like  a  gigantic  and  malignant  spirit  over  all 
within  its  influence — the  wild  and  tangled  copse  wood  that  partially  shaded 
without  obscuring,  the  singular  and  dissimilar  assemblage,  that  had  for  its 
centre  the  antique  and  picturesque  carriage — while  the  richly  dressed  servants 
and  the  beautiful  and  interesting  attitude  of  the  kneeling  girl  finely  contrasted 
with  the  demoniac  appearance  of  the  lawless  plunderers.  But  even  my  king  of 
painters,  had  I  power  to  recall  him  from  his  repose  in  that  warm  and  sunny 
country — 


THE    RAPPAREE.  289 

"  Where  the  poet's  lip  and  the  painter's  hand 
Are  most  divine," 

must  have  failed  in  conveying  an  idea  of  the  succession  of  mingled  and  warring 
feelings  that  were  manifested,  when  Freney,  fierce  and  terrible  as  the  mountain- 
spirit,  his  horse  covered  with  foam,  his  eyes  flashing  with  rage  and  indignation, 
plunged  in  amongst  them. 

"  Villain !"  he  exclaimed,  seizing  the  wretch  Breen  by  the  collar,  as  a  massive 
pocket-book,  large  enough  for  a  modern  folio,  dropped  from  the  false  fellow's 
grasp;  while,  with  his  other  hand  Freney  drew  from  his  belt  a  large  horse- 
pistol — "  you  are  a  fit  example  for  all  who  disobey  orders,"  he  continued  with  a 
frightful  coolness  of  tone  and  manner. 

"  Mercy,  and  hear  me !"  entreated  the  caitiff,  falling  on  his  knees  "  there  is  no 
blood  spilt  to  signify — no  harm  done :"  then,  suddenly  recollecting  himself,  he 
added,  "  sure  I  can't  understand  why  ye  trate  me  after  such  a  fashion — judgment 
afore  death,  in  this  world,  any  way." 

"  Look  here,  boys,"  persevered  the  captain,  without  loosening  his  hold,  "  my 
orders  were  given — my  orders  have  been  disobeyed,  and  thus  I  punish  all — ay 
— every  mother's  son  who  dares  to  think  and  act  in  opposition  to  them !"  He 
cocked  the  pistol,  and  placed  its  muzzle  close  to  the  wretched  man's  ear,  while 
all  who  breathlessly  beheld  the  scene  appeared  paralyzed  by  the  energy  and  de- 
termination of  this  singular  being. 

"  For  God's  sake  ! — as  you  expect  mercy  at  your  dying  day ! — don't  send  me 
out  of  the  world  without  cross  or  prayer  ! — one — one  minute  to  make  my  soul ! 
Oh  !  for  the  sake  of  the  mother  that  bore  ye,  remember  another  woman's  son !" 
rapidly  ejaculated  the  unfortunate  man.  His  entreaties  had  little  effect,  and  in 
another  moment,  he  would  have  been  launched  into  eternity,  had  not  a  small 
white  hand,  for  the  second  time  that  night  rested  on  Freney's  shoulder ;  and  a 
gentle  voice,  trembling' and  faint  from  agitation,  exclaimed,  "  Forbear !"  By 
degrees,  his  firm  grasp  relaxed,  the  lion  melted  into  the  lamb,  and  the  outlaw, 
who  braved  the  ordinances  of  man,  and  who  would  not  have  quailed  beneath  the 
iron  grasp  of  justice,  trembled  at  that  gentle  touch. 

"  I  know  not — I  dread  to  know,"  said  Miss  Dartforth,  "  by  what  power  you 
command  those  men — but  I  recognize  the  playmate  of  my  youth ;  and  the  child 
my  angel  mother  fostered  will  not  surely  stain  his  hand  with  blood." 

"  Believe  me,"  he  replied,  earnestly,  "  that,  though  Patrick  James,  and 
James  Freney,  are  one  and  the  same  person,  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  this 
night's  unfortunate  affair.  I  have  not  forgotten,  Norah  —  pardon  me,  Miss 
Dartforth, — I  have  not  forgotten  what  I  owe  to  your  house."  He  turned  ab- 
ruptly from  her,  as  if  afraid  to  trust  himself  under  her  influence.  "  Rise,  ye 
poor  trembling  miscreant!  —  to  the  lady  ye  would  have  plundered  you  owe 
your  life,"  he  continued,  after  a  moment's  pause,  addressing  Breen,  who  did 
not  need  to  have  the  permission  repeated.  "And  now,  my  men,  help  Mr. 
37 


290  THE    RAPPAREE. 

Dartforth's  servants  to  replace  what  you  would  have  plundered.  Breen,  your 
assistance  is  not  required — you  hold  no  communion  with  my  free-hearted  boys ; 
not  one  of  them,  except  yourself,  would  have  dared  to  disobey  me — you  and 
one  other.  All  share  of  booty,  for  the  next  three  months,  I  disclaim ;  there, 
replace  the  things,  my  fine  fellows,  and  I  will  count  scores  with  you  after- 
wards." 

Freney's  utterance  and  actions  were  rapid  and  energetic ;  his  followers  did 
as  he  commanded,  with  the  air  of  persons  who  obey  more  from  habit  than 
inclination.  It  was,  nevertheless,  obvious,  that  Freney  was  much  agitated ; 
not  from  any  dread  of  revolt  amongst  his  gang,  but  from  the  recurrence,  at 
such  a  moment,  of  recollections  that  almost  overpowered  him.  After 
issuing  his  brief  directions,  he  walked  to  where  Miss  Dartforth  had  returned  to 
support  her  father,  and  hardly  answered  the  question  of  one  of  his  party,  who 
having  discovered  the  person  I  before  mentioned,  as  the  family  " toady"  coiled 
up,  or  rather,  squatting,  like  the  vile  reptile,  whose  name  appropriately  belongs 
to  his  class,  under  a  huge  furze-bush,  dragged  him  forth,  and  held  him,  after 
the  fashion  of  a  bale  of  cloth,  at  either  end,  while  he  exclaimed,  "  Captain, 
dear!  what's  to  be  done  wid  this  parcel?  Sure  the  jontleman  'ud  be  glad 
to  get  rid  of  it  any  way ;  though,  I  'm  thinkin',  its  little  good  is  in  it  for  man 
or  baste." 

The  old  gentleman  was  evidently  labouring  under  an  aberration  of  mind, 
brought  on  by  terror,  and  contending  feelings :  his  every  nerve  trembled,  and 
it  was  with  great  difficulty  that  his  daughter  and  his  own  servant  supported, 
or  rather  carried,  him  towards  the  carriage,  by  that  time  ready  for  his  recep- 
tion. He  perfectly  understood  that  the  young  man  who  tendered  his  services 
to  assist  him  forward,  and  had  saved  his  property,  perhaps  his  life,  was  the  same 
he  had  first  cherished,  and  then  abandoned ;  but  he  did  not  appear  to  under- 
stand the  light  in  which  he  stood,  as  captain  of  the  robbers:  he  seized  his 
proffered  arm  with  the  eagerness  of  a  drowning  man,  catching  at  aught  that  is 
even  symbolic  of  hope,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly  into  his  face ;  at  length, 
his  pale,  dull  eyes  filled  with  unbidden  tears,  and  with  a  powerful  effort  he  threw 
himself  on  the  brigand's  neck,  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  wept  most  bitterly.  It 
was  a  time  of  trial  for  all,  and,  in  after  years,  was  often  thought  of. 

Mr.  Dartforth  was  at  length  placed  in  the  carriage,  and,  in  broken  accents, 
he  entreated  Freney  to  enter  with  him.  "  All  shall  be  yours,  James,  as  before," 
he  murmured — *'  sure  you  've  saved  my  life.  Norah,  you  speak  for  me,  he  always 
heeded  you."  This  was  more  than  Freney  could  bear ; — he  rushed  from  his 
grasp,  ordering  the  coachman  to  drive  on,  in  a  tone  of  voice  not  to  be  dis- 
obeyed. 

I  have  heard  that  Mr.  Dartforth  never  perfectly  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
that  night's  adventure  ; — the  consciousness  that  the  youth  he  had  so  loved,  was 
the  rapparee  chief,  upon  whose  head  a  price  was  set,  and  who  suffered  the  curse 
of  Ishmael,  even  in  his  own  land,  embittered  every  hour  of  his  existence :  but 


THE    RAPPAREE. 


291 


worse,  even  than  that,  was  the  consciousness  that  his  mismanagement  had  led 
to  such  fearful  consequences.  Even  those  who  suffered  from  Freney's  plun- 
derings,  were  ready  to  admit  there  was  that  about  him  which,  had  it  been 
properly  managed,  would  have  rendered  him  the  admiration,  not  the  terror,  of 
his  country.  And,  with  this  miserable  knowledge,  the  old  man  descended  to 
his  grave,  ignorant  of  what  a  few  years  longer  life  would  have  informed  him — 
for  Freney,  in  process  of  time,  repented,  and  became  reformed,  and  finished  hii 
days,  in  peace  and  quietness,  in  the  town  of  New  Ross. 


GERALDINE. 

OU  cannot  conceive  anything  more  beautiful,  either 
in  situation  or  interior,  than  the  simple  chapel  of  our 
"  Lady  of  Grace,"  that  crowns  the  cliffs,  at  Honfleur, 
where  sailors  and  their  wives  offer  their  prayers,  and 
pay  their  vows.  I  found  a  number  of  my  country- 
5  men  and  women  at  Honfleur;  and  was  much  struck 
f?  with  the  appearance  of  one  in  particular,  who  climbed 
I  the  hill  leading  to  the  chapel,  every  morning,  and  re- 
mained there  during  the  day.  The  servant  who 
accompanied,  or  rather  followed  her,  never  revealed 
her  surname ;  she  spoke  of  her,  and  to  her,  as  "  Miss 
Geraldine,"  and  threw  into  this  name  of  lofty  sound 
as  great  a  quantity  of  Irish,  unsophisticated  brogue,  as 
the  three  syllables  could  express.  It  was  very  plea- 
sant to  me  to  hear  the  tones  of  my  own  country  in  a 
foreign  land,  and  still  more  pleasing  to  observe  the 
attention,  amounting  to  positive  devotion,  which  the  good-tempered,  broad- 
featured  woman  bestowed  upon  the  fair  devotee. 


GERALDINE.  293 

"  Devotee !"— I  do  not  know  exactly  why  I  should  call  her  so,  except  from 
the  fact  of  her  perpetually  climbing  that  most  picturesque  and  winding  road, 
leading  to  the  chapel,  and  kneeling  before  the  pretty  shrine  of  the  Madonna, 
for  hours  together ;  her  attitude  was  one  of  perfect  devotion ;  one  small  hand 
held  the  rosary,  the  other  shaded  her  face ;  the  cloak  appeared  abandoned  to  its 
own  drapery — her  hair  fell  as  you  see,  in  the  most  degage  undress  ;  and  it  was 
not  until  you  approached  the  fair  saint,  that  you  perceived  her  eyes  were  any- 
thing but  quiet — they  rambled  from  corner  to  corner  of  their  fringed  pent- 
houses, with  an  observant,  rather  than  a  coquetish,  expression ;  certainly, 
with  anything  but  the  devoted  one  which  her  attitude  would  lead  you  to 
expect.  She  appeared  thinking  of,  and  expecting,  some  one  who  did  not  come. 
Her  step,  in  the  morning,  seemed  buoyant  with  hope — but,  in  the  evening,  she 
hung  her  head,  and  descended  to  an  obscure  lodging  in  the  town,  as  if  weighed 
down  by  disappointment.  Meeting  her  so  frequently,  and  feeling  deeply 
interested  in  one  so  beautiful,  it  was  impossible  not  to  evince  a  portion  of  that 
feeling,  restrained  as  it  must  be,  by  the  fear  of  offending  its  object ;  at  last, 
however,  we  exchanged  brief  greetings ;  and  she  would,  when  I  visited  the 
chapel,  rise  from  before  the  Madonna,  and  point  out  some  particular  offering 
for  my  sympathy  or  admiration;  but  our  acquaintance  gained  no  further 
ground  ;  she  spoke  but  few  words,  and  their  tone  conveyed  the  idea  that  she 
was  not  in  the  least  interested  in  what  she  said ;  her  words  were  with  you,  but 
not  her  thoughts — they  were  away ;  but  where  ?  With  her  deserted  country, 
or  forsaken  parents,  or  absent  brothers,  or — that  is  ever  the  uppermost  thought 
on  such  occasions — a  wandering  lover?  Her  attendant  seldom  entered  the 
chapel,  but  would  sit  outside,  under  the  magnificent  Cross  which  casts  its  pro- 
tecting shadow  over  the  waters.  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  cheering  to  the 
spirits  of  a  French  sailor,  than  the  sight  of  that  Cross  as  he  returns,  after  wrest- 
ling with  the  spirits  of  the  deep,  to  his  native  country. 

The  attendant  was  naturally  communicative  ;  and  anxious  to  impress  me  with 
a  notion  of  Miss  Geraldine's  sanctity  and  greatness  "  in  her  own  country ;"  but, 
with  all  her  national  garrulity,  she  guarded  well  her  young  lady's  secret,  what- 
ever it  was. 

"  It 's  hard,  so  it  is,"  she  said,  one  evening,  just  as  the  sun  was  about  to  set ; 
— "  it 's  mighty  hard  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  sit  here,  looking  over  the  sea,  or 
taking  account  of  the  voleens  that  come  up  to  pray  for  the  return  of  those  that 
may-be,  have  left  their  bones  to  the  mermaids,  long  ago;  but  I  don't  care,  it's 
the  love  and  duty  I  owe  my  fosterer ;  for,  although  she's  a  lady,  as  any  one 
may  see,  and  I  'm — just  what  I  am,  and  nothing  more  or  less, — we  were  both 
reared  on  the  same  milk ;  both  slept  on  the  same  bosom — that 's  cold,  colder, 
than  them  stones,  now  ;  if  it  wasn't — it 's  in  dear  Ireland  we  'd  be  still ;"  and 
tears  poured  from  her  large  grey  eyes,  but  were  quickly  suppressed.  "  'Oh,  it 's 
mighty  grand,'  as  I  say  to  Miss  Geraldine,  '  to  come  to  foreign  parts ; — but 
where's  the  country  like  our  own, — the  country  that  has  the  nature  in  it — the 
welcome  that  comes  from  the  heart, — the  farewell  that  bursts  from  the  eyes  ?' 


294  GERALDINE. 

Oh,  my !  and  she  in  there,  all  day ;  and  when  she  comes  out,  it 's  more  dead 
than  alive  she  '11  be  !  If  you  had  seen  her  a  year  ago,  when  her  beautiful  face 
was  ever  in  motion — like  the  sunbeams  on  the  sea — and  when  she  *d  lay  down, 
and  uprise  with  a  song  upon  her  lips,  that  like  two  real  lovers,  never  parted 
but  to  meet  in  smiles  !  Oh,  my  !  the  spirit 's  prayed  out  of  her — so  it  is." 

"  Not  quite,"  I  said,  and  I  remembered  the  inquiring  expression  of  her  wander- 
ing eyes. 

"  Oh !"  answered  the  ready  Irishwoman — "  if  she  prays,  she  watches  too, — 
she  must — though  that 's  neither  here  nor  there.  There  's  fine  religion  in  this 
country,  and  nothing  to  go  against  it ;  and  yet  I  wish  we  were  back  in  ould  Ire- 
land once  more  :  but  let  her  go  where  she  will,  I  '11  never  part  her.  I  promised 
the  dying  on  the  death-bed,  I  never  would — with  her  liking,  or  without  it ;  and, 
as  the  ould  verse  says, 

'  By  a  promise  to  the  dead, 
Through  the  world  you  may  be  led  ;' 

and  that 's  thrue,  and  why  not? — it 's  a  promise  you  can't  be  absolved  from,  only 
by  a  priest,  and  his  reverence  would  not  like  being  troubled  about  such  a  thing, 
at  all.  The  sight 's  wore  out  of  my  eyes,  and  the  feet  off  my  legs,  and  the  laugh 
from  my  heart,  just  with  following  her ;  but  I  don't  care  for  that ;  when  her 
vow's  out,  we  '11  have  peace,  may-be." 

"  But  what  is  her  vow  to  you  ?" 

The  large  grey  eyes  dilated,  until  they  looked  half  as  large  again  as  usual, 
while  she  repeated,  "  Is  it  to  me,  ma'am  ?  sure  I  tould  you,  dear,  she  was  Miss 
Geraldine,  my  own  young  lady,  away  from  her  people,  and  country ; — and  the 
promise  !  Ah,  then,  sure  now,  I  've  just  tould  you  of  my  promise  to  them  that 
loved  her ;  and  little  thought  it 's  in  this  outlandish  country  she  'd  be,  where  they 
are  so  ignorant  that  they  have  no  English ;  though  it 's  a  God-fearing  country, 
for  all  that.  «  What  is  her  vow  to  me,'  avick !  Ah,  were  you  ever  in  Ireland 
at  all,  to  ask  that,  and  she  my  fosterer — besides  1  '  Her  vow  to  me,'  the  jewel  i 
the  heavens  above  knows — more  than  my  own — ten  times ;  may-be  I  won't 
follow  her  through  the  earth — my  soul's  delight !" 

"  But,  suppose  she  was  to  become  very  poor,"  I  said. 

"  She  'd  want  me  all  the  more,"  replied  Irish  fidelity.  "  Besides,"  she  added, 
laughingly,  "  it  is  not  easy  to  frighten  any  one  with  poverty,  who  has  lived  all 
her  life,  for  seven  days  out  of  the  week,  upon  potatoes  and  milk.  I  don't  care 
for  any  hardship  that  would  come  upon  myself;  but  I'd  lay  down  my  life  to 
save  her,  the  darling  of  my  heart,  from  any  harm.  May  the  Lord  put  all  heavy 
trouble  past  her !  Sure,  I  pray  for  that  on  my  bended  knees,  night  and  morn- 
ing, as  well  as  all  day  long;  she's  had  her  cross,  and,  in  time,  will  have  her 
£rown.  I  left  my  country,  and  him  I  loved  better  than  any  country,  to  follow 
her ;  and  if  she 's  here  to-day,  she  may  be  gone  to-morrow : — there  she  is,  now, 
as  white  as  a  snowdrop — so,  good  evening,  ma'am ;  and  God  be  with  you  !" 

About  ten  days  after  this,  we  had  nearly  achieved  the  summit  of  our  favour- 


GERALDINE. 


295 


ite  walk,  and  only  paused  to  look  back  upon  the  town,  when  a  gentleman 
passed  us,  with  steps,  it  would  seem,  more  eager  than  his  strength  permitted ; 
his  dress  was  more  foreign  than  French — decidedly  not  belonging  to  the  British 
Isles.  We  did  not  see  his  face,  which  was  turned  away.  When  we  arrived  on 
the  hill — there,  in  her  old  place,  sat  the  faithful  Irishwoman,  looking  over  the 
sea ;  and  by  some  instinct,  turning  her  head  to  scrutinize  every  one  who  set 
foot  upon  the  natural  platform  on  which  the  chapel  stands,  and  the  cross  is 
planted:  her  recognition  was  a  broad  smile,  a  closing  of  the  hands,  and  a  mo- 
tion of  her  head — and  then,  as  we  approached,  she  rose.  We  had  not,  how- 
ever, exchanged  a  word,  when  a  faint  scream  sent  her  flying  to  the  chapel. 
We  followed,  to  see  the  fair  devotee  weeping  and  sobbing,  like  a  child,  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  stranger  we  had  passed  on  the  hill. 

The  next  morning  they  had  quitted  Honfleur — some  said,  in  a  ship  sailing  for 
Mexico — others  declared,  for  Sydney.  The  old  woman  of  the  house  protested 
the  stranger  to  be  Miss  Geraldine's  brother — for  he  was  so  like  her ;  and  the 
brown-skinned,  black-eyed  daughter  observed,  that  husbands  were  sometimes 
like  their  wives.  There  was  no  doubt  that  the  servant  still  followed  her  lady's 
fortunes — faithful  and  devoted  to  the  last. 


MABEL  .O'NEIL'S  CURSE. 


HERE'S  the  good  of  talking  to  me  of  a  dance,  or 
anything  of  the  sort  ?"  said  Kathleen  Ryley,  rais- 
ing her  clear  blue  eyes  to  the  good-natured  coun- 
tenance of  Philip  Murphy :  "  sure  ye  know  my 
pumps  aren't  come  home  —  nor,  more  betokens, 
won't  be  till  Saturday  night ;  and  Saint  Patrick 
himself  couldn't  cut  a  step  in  such  brogues  as 
them." 

Kate  was,  in  very  truth,  a  frank-hearted,  merry 
girl,  with  laughing  blue  eyes,  a  joyous  counte- 
nance, and  a  sweet,  love-sounding  voice,  one 
whom  sorrow  had  shadowed,  but  could  not  cloud. 
Her  father,  a  respectable  farmer,  had  the  misfor 
tune  to  lose  a  sensible  industrious  wife,  when  Kath- 
leen was  not  more  than  fourteen  ;  leaving  him,  be- 
sides his  eldest  daughter,  five  young,  troublesome 


297 

children.  Everybody  pitied  Mark  Ryley ;  everybody  said,  "  he  must  marry 
again ;  Kate  was  too  young,  and  too  giddy,  to  manage  such  a  household." — 
Everybody,  however,  was  wrong.  Mark  Ryley  did  not  marry  again,  and  Kate 
did  manage  his  household.  And,  in  sooth,  it  was  a  beautiful  sight — a  sight  that 
may  be  often  vainly  sought  in  nobler  dwellings — to  observe  the  filial  and  sisterly 
tenderness  of  the  simple  Irish  lass.  Kathleen  was  considered  a  pretty  maiden 
by  all  who  knew  her,  and  her  mother  had  bestowed  extraordinary  pains  upon 
her  daughter's  apparel;  but  matters  changed  when  the  poor  woman  died;  the 
fine  gingham  frocks,  and  Sunday  tippets,  were  cut  and  manufactured,  by 
Kate's  own  hands,  into  holiday  dresses  for  her  two  little  sisters;  daily  did  she 
send  them  to  the  village  school,  and  never  permit  either  to  remain  at  home, 
lo  assist  in  her  labours,  which  certainly  were  not  light.  Then  her  three  bro- 
thers occasioned  her  much  trouble;  such  clipping  and  shaping  of  jackets — 
which,  after  all,  in  fashionable  parlance  would  have  been  denominated  shapeless — 
such  patching  of  shirts,  and  eternal  mending  of  Sunday  stockings  !  It  was  at 
once  her  pride  and  pleasure  that  her  father's  comforts  should  be  as  well  cared 
for  as  during  her  mother's  lifetime;  and,  even  to  the  public-house  (where, 
it  is  but  justice  to  state,  his  visits  were  seldom  made),  his  daughter's  influence 
extended ;  for  thither  would  she  follow,  and  so  wile  him  homeward,  that  the 
neighbours  declared,  "  of  all  girls  in  the  world,  sweet  Kathleen  Ryley  had  the 
most  winning  way." 

Kathleen  did  not  owe  any  of  her  charms  to  meretricious  ornament ;  her 
every-day  gear  was  of  coarse  striped  linsey-wolsey,  though  its  tight  fitting  body 
and  short  sleeves,  it  cannot  be  denied,  set  off  her  fine  round  figure  to  much  ad- 
vantage ;  she  was  seldom  guilty  of  the  extravagance  of  wearing  stockings  in 
summer,  except  on  Sundays ;  but  her  white  muslin  kerchief  was  always  deli- 
cately clean,  neatly  mended,  and  carefully  pinned  across  her  bosom.  Her  light, 
shining  hair — not  tortured  into  curls,  but  plainly  braided  to  the  back  of  her  head, 
where  it  was  fastened  by  a  small  tortoise-shell  comb,  (the  only  article  of  finery 
she  possessed,  and  which,  to  confess  the  truth,  had  been  presented  to  her  by  no 
other  than  Philip  Murphy) — she  was,  perhaps,  a  little  vain  of. 

Philip  thought  Kate  very  handsome  in  her  linsey-woolsey  gown — very  hand- 
some when  washing  the  face  of  her  troublesome  brother,  Tom  (an  obstinate 
lad  of  six,  lubberly  and  dirty  as  any  Irish  boy  need  be) — very  handsome,  when 
watching  to  see  if  her  father's  pipe  wanted  lighting,  after  a  hard  day's  work — 
or  when  disrobing  him  of  his  "jock  coat,"  worn  only  on  Sabbath  or  saint's 
days.  Moreover,  he  thought,  and  no  wonder,  that  she  would  make  a  very 
handsome  bride.  He  had  said  this  over  and  over  again,  both  to  her  and  her 
father ;  and  her  father  had  replied,  "  that  as  they  loved  each  other,  and  as 
Philip  was  well  to  do  in  the  world,  they  might  be  married  as  soon  as  they 
pleased."  But  the  lassie's  consent  was  wanting,  although  his  love  was  the  star 
of  her  existence. 

"  When  it  pleased  God  (praise  be  to  His  holy  name,  for  ever— amen  !)  to 
take  my  poor  mother,"  she  would  say,  in  reply  to  her  lover's  urgent  entreaties 
38 


298  MABEL  o  NEIL'S  CURSE. 

for  their  immediate  union — "  sure  it  was  all  as  one  as  if  HE  said, '  Katy,  ma- 
chree,  be  an  own  mother  to  them  desolate  children.'  Wait  —  wait  a  while, 
Phil :  summer  flowers  are  more  plenty  than  spring  ones ;  the  grass  will  be  all 
the  longer,  and  the  blossoms  all  the  sweeter,  for  a  taste  o'  patience ;  and  Anty 
will  be  able  to  do  for  my  father  as  well  as  me,  and  they'll  all  have  their  laming 
and  the  blessing  '11  be  the  more  round  our  own  little  place,  in  reason  of  my 
having  done  my  duty  to  the  poor  orphans." 

Such  were  Kathleen's  simple  reasons,  which  had  she  been  a  "  high  born 
ladye,"  would  have  called  down  the  applause  of  an  admiring  world.  As  it  was, 
Kate  had  the  approbation  of  her  own  conscience,  and  the  increased  affection  of 
the  heart  she  so  dearly  prized — for  Philip  could  not  but  value  more  highly  the 
girl  who  possessed  principles  so  exalted  and  self-denying. 

I  must  now  revert  to  the  humble  dialogue  with  which  my  story  com- 
menced. 

"  The  dickons  himself  carry  all  shoemakers,  say  I !"  replied  young 
Murphy;  "he  might  have  finished  the  pumps  long  enough  ago,  if  he  had  a 
mind ;  to  have  such  nate  little  feet  as  them  in  such  vagabond  brogueens,  sure 
it's  too  bad  intirely!  —  but  it's  always  the  way,  you  grudge  yourself  every 
dacent  tack  that  goes  on  your  back,  let  alone  yerfeet; — well,  't  won't  be  always 
so — for,  when  yer  Mistress  Phil  Murphy,  there  shan't  be  a  better-dressed  girl  in 
the  parish,  of  a  small  farmer's  wife.  Any  way,  you  shan't  lose  the  dance, 
Kate ;  for  't  isn't  more  than  two  miles  across  the  bog  to  my  sister's,  and  I  Ml 
borrow  her  shoes  for  ye — and  sure  she  Ml  be  proud  to  lend  'em.  Good-bye," 
he  continued,  as  he  left  the  cottage,  "  God's  blessing  be  about  ye  always,  my 
own  coushla !" 

"  He 's  an  honest  boy,  and  a  dacent,  and,  by  the  same  token,  a  handsome 
one,  too,"  soliloquised  Kathleen,  as  she  peeped  through  a  chink  in  the  cottage 
wall ;  then  fastening  the  door,  by  letting  down  the  latch,  and  pulling  in  the 
latch-string,  she  began  arranging  her  dress  for  the  dance,  which  the  borrowed 
slippers  would  enable  her  to  attend.  The  snowy  stockings  were  carefully 
drawn  on — the  white  petticoat  and  open  chintz-cotton  gown  neatly  arranged — 
and  her  beautiful  hair  plaited  round  the  tortoise-shell  comb,  so  as  to  display 
it  to  the  best  advantage ;  nor  will  I  deny  (for  my  heroine  was  a  true  woman) 
that  she  gazed  upon  her  own  image  as  reflected  in  the  cracked  looking-glass, 
with  much  self-satisfaction.  Her  meditations  were,  however,  soon  interrupted 
by  a  smart  knock  at  the  cottage  entrance,  impatiently  repeated.  "  He  can't 
be  there  yet — let  alone  back,"  she  thought  as  she  lifted  the  latch,  where,  to  her 
no  small  astonishment,  a  very  different  person,  anxiously  waited  admittance. 
A  tall  gaunt  woman,  whose  wild  and  fierce  appearance  painfully  contrasted 
with  the  mild  beauty  of  the  evening  landscape,  from  which  the  last  beams  of 
the  setting  sun  were  gently  departing,  leaned  against  the  door-post.  Her 
form  was  partly  shrouded  in  a  tattered  cloak,  which,  fastened  by  a  wooden 
skewer  at  the  throat,  wrapped  the  figure  to  the  knees ;  a  stout  leathern  belt 
passed  across  one  shoulder,  from  which  a  dirty  canvass  bag  was  suspended, 


299 

containing  the  dole  of  meal,  potatoes,  grits,  or  whatever  the  kind-hearted 
peasantry  could  spare  from  their  meagre  store ;  her  feet  were  bare — the  scanty 
petticoat  reached  nearly  to  the  ankles,  whose  masculine  proportions  told  of 
extraordinary  strength:  her  skin,  eyes,  and  hair,  almost  betokened  foreign 
origin,  yet  her  features  were  remarkable  for  the  shrewd  observant  character 
peculiar  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  south  of  Ireland ;  her  brow  was  low  and 
projecting,  and  her  sunken  eyes  appeared  condensed,  as  .it  were,  into  the  ex- 
pression of  a  deep  and  malignant  hatred  towards  all  the  human  race — but, 
•when  excited  by  the  active  passions  of  rage  or  revenge,  they  flashed  with  the 
rapidity,  and  almost  the  brilliancy,  of  lightning ;  her  head-tire  consisted  simply 
of  a  kerchief  knotted  under  the  chin,  which  could  not  be  said  tp  confine  her 
dark,  matted  locks,  while  it  added  much  to  the  wildness  of  her  appearance. 
The  peaceable  cotters  considered  Mabel  O'Neil  as  a  sort  of  wild  woman,  and, 
in  truth,  ceded  to  her  the  rights  of  hospitality  more  in  fear  than  in  love ;  for 
it  was  often  whispered  that,  to  the  lawless,  she  was  not  only  an  adviser  but  an 
accomplice,  and  many  things  were  said  of  "  Mad  Mabel,"  in  her  absence,  that 
it  would  require  a  good  deal  of  courage  even  to  think  of  when  she  was  present. 
Kathleen,  contrary  to  her  country's  usage,  of  opening  wide  the  portal  when  a 
stranger  seeks  admittance,  still  held  it,  and  almost  trembled  when  the  woman's 
eye  rested  upon  her  with  its  usual  expression.  Without  speaking,  she  stretched 
forth  her  bony  arm,  and  pushed  the  door  so  forcibly,  that  it  swung  out  of  Kate's 
hand ;  then  she  advanced  her  right  foot  inside  the  threshold,  and  eying  the 
maiden  with  much  bitterness,  said  : 

"And  that's  yer  fine  breeding,  is  it,  Katy  Ryley? — to  stand  staring  at  an 
aged  woman  outside  the  door-cheek ! — at  one  whose  head  is  grey — whose  feet 
are  sore — whose  lips  are  dry — whose  bag  is  empty — who  has  neither  kin  nor 
friend  near,  to  say  « God  save  ye  !' — nor  a  stick  or  a  stone  to  set  her  mark  upon 
— where  she  may  lay  down  her  bones  and  die  1" 

"  Come  in,  Mabel  O'Neil,  and  welcome,"  responded  Kathleen,  hesitatingly — 
"  sure,  agra,  it  was  only  the  want  of  thought." 

"  Silence  !"  interrupted  Mabel,  stalking  forward,  "  silence,  girl ! — it  is  too  soon 
for  you  to  have  a  lie  on  your  lip ;  the  time  will  come — must  come  to  you,  as 
well  as  to  yer  betters,  when  it  '11  sit  as  easy  there  as  upon  the  lip  of  e'er  a  lady 
in  the  land." 

She  sat  down  upon  a  three-legged  stool,  near  the  chimney-corner,  and 
Kathleen  filled  her  a  noggin  of  fresh  milk,  and  presented  with  it,  that  luxury 
of  Irish  life — a  piece  of  white  bread.  The  woman  pushed  the  refreshment 
from  her.  "  It 's  not  come  to  that  wid  Mad  Mabel,  yet,"  she  mut- 
tered, in  a  half-audible  voice;  "to  ate  the  begrudged  bit,  and  drink  the  be- 
grudged sup." 

"  Take  it,  Mabel,"  persisted  the  good-hearted  Kate,  her  pity,  excited  by 
the  worn-out  appearance  of  the  wild  woman,  conquering  her  fear — "  pray  do  ; 
and  I  '11  get  you  a  shock  of  father's  new  tobacco,  and  bathe  yer  feet,  that  I  see 
are  sore  and  cut — the  crathurs ! — Do  take  it." 


300  MABEL  O'NEII/S  CURSE. 

I  have  often  thought  the  music  of  Orpheus  consisted  solely  in  sounds 
of  kindness,  addressed  to  the  woodland  savages ;  its  power  over  the  animated 
world  is  little  short  of  magic.  Even  that  wayward  and  crime-worn  creature 
could  not  resist  the  persuasive  gentleness  of  Kathleen's  words.  She  took  the 
wooden  vessel  from  her  hand,  and,  peering  into  her  face,  said,  "  It 's  a  pity  to 
look  upon  ye,  ye  young  fool,  and  to  think  that,  though  the  lightning  may  spare 
ye,  the  canker  won't  I  shouldn't  have  been  angry  wid  yer  mother's  daughter 
— who  knew  me  before  sin — ay  first  sin,  then  sorrow — black,  bitter,  stormy 
sorrow — came  over  me,  and  changed  me  from  the  light,  proud — ay,  't  was  the 
pride  that  did  it — but  it 's  not  asy  talking  of  them  things." 

She  paused,  and  looked  moodily  on  the  embers  of  the  turf  fire ;  and  then 
finished,  at  one  draught,  the  milk  which  Kate  had  given  her,  and  turned  her 
gaze  upon  the  maiden,  who  endeavoured,  in  vain,  to  arrange  the  remainder  of 
her  village  dress  under  the  influence  of  the  woman's  ken. 

"  Did  ye  never  hear,"  she  said,  addressing  her,  after  a  long  silence, — "  did 
ye  never  hear  tell  of  the  countries  beyant  seas,  where  a  sarpent  jist  fixes  his 
eye  upon  an  innocent  bird,  and  it  trembles — trembles — till  it  falls  into  its 
mouth?  Kathleen  Ryley,  you  are  now,  for  all  the  world,  like  that  bird,  and  I 
like  that  other  thing ; — but  never  heed  my  cronauning.  Come  here,  to  my  side, 
and  listen.  You  know  'Squire  Johnson — the  justice,  as  he 's  called — and  ye 
have  a  sort  of  a  regard  for  the  young  lady,  yer  foster-sister — she's  a  fair  flower ; 
but  the  curse  o'  the  free-hearted  is  over  them,  like  a  thunder-cloud,  and  a  worse 
curse  than  that,  even,  over  him,  and  it  '11  burst  this  very  night.  And  who 
will  escape  it,  unless  you  bestir  yourself,  and  warn  them  of  their  danger ! — and 
it 's  little  time  there  is  for  that  same.  See,"  and  she  pointed  with  her  finger  to 
the  glowing  west,  "  the  sun  has  sunk  this  midsummer  evening,  in  red,  red  glory 
— but  the  burning  of  their  house  will  be  as  bright  before  the  clock  goes  twelve 
this  blessed  night !" 

"Holy  Father!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  crossing  herself  devoutly.  "Mabel 
O'Neil,  for  the  sake  o'  the  mercy  you  expect " 

"I  expect  mercy!"  interrupted  the  woman,  with  a  fearful  laugh,  which 
brought  the  rumour  of  her  insanity  fully  to  the  remembrance  of  the  young 
Kathleen ;  "  I,  the  banned,  the  blighted  woman  ! — yes — this  mercy — here  !" 
She  threw  off  her  cloak,  and  bent  her  almost  fleshless  figure  forward.  "  Shall 
I  tear  away  these  skreeds,  and  show  you  the  mercy  of  the  scourgings  I  got  in 
Dublin  ?  Shall  I  show  you  the  mercy  of  five  stabs  in  this  withered  bosom, 
when  I  spread  wide  my  arms  to  save  my  husband's  life  ?  Shall  I  tell  ye  of 
the  mercy  showed  by  a  heretic  justice  to  my  starving  childer  1 — to  one — my 
brave,  brave  boy — to  myself,  when  I  clung  by  the  black  ship's  side,  that  was 
bearing  him  to  the  land  o'  shame,  jist  to  give  him  my  last  blessing — their  mercy 
knocked  me  on  the  head,  as  if  I  was  a  thing  of  stone !  Oh !"  she  continued, 
shrieking  wildly,  and  pressing  her  hands  on  her  temples,  "  I  feel  it  now ;  and  his 
last,  last  look,  is  ever  before  me  !" 

Kathleen's  gentle  feelings  sympathized  with  the  unfortunate  creature ;  and, 


MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE.  301 

when  the  paroxysm  of  her  anguish  abated,  and  she  saw  tears  streaming  between 
her  fingers,  again  she  spoke  to  her  in  gentle  tones,  mingling  her  soothing  words 
with  entreaties  to  be  informed  of  the  probable  fate  that  awaited  Mr.  Johnston's 
house  and  property. 

"Ay,  it's  for  that  ye  care,  and  not  for  me,"  said  the  woman,  at  last,  groaning 
heavily ;  "  if  I  warn  off  this  burning,  't  is  not  for  the  sake  o'  mercy,  but 
because  I  know  the  boys  are  so  beset,  by  the  cowardly  red-coats,  that,  before 
their  job  'ud  be  half  done,  they'd  be  powdered  down  upon,  and  kilt  at  once, 
and,  after  all,  no  good  done ;  and  there 's  one,  too,  I  wish  to  save  from  ever 
feeling  what  racks  me  to  think  upon ;  but  that  you  can't  understand ;  and. 
moreover,  I've  a  love  for  the  house,  that  I  knew  but  too  well  when  the  pre- 
sent man  was  nothin'  but  a  bit  of  an  agent  to  the  ancient  proprietor.  Oh,  it 
would  destroy  me  entirely,  to  see  the  ruin  of  the  place  in  which  I  spent  my 
innocent  days !  And  often,  when  my  heart 's  full  of  what  ye  'd  think  could 
never  enter  into  woman's  bosom,  I  see  a  glimpse  of  the  white  chimleys,  or, 
may-be,  the  ould  turret  itself,  above  the  trees;  and  I  cry,  and  the  scalding 
tears  take  the  venom  out  o'  me ;  and  then  I  can  pray.  Child !  child ! — there 
are  many  sorts  o'  tears ;  some  that  come  burning  from  the  brain ;  others  that 
save  the  heart  from  bursting !"  She  paused,  and  crossed  her  hands  on  her 
bosom ;  then,  resting  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  continued,  in  a  subdued  tone, — 
"  May-be,  I  've  other  reasons,  too ;  only,  if  a  warning  could  be  sent  to  the  'Squire, 
the  boys  would  get  the  wind  o'  the  word,  and  not  attempt  it,  knowing  that  he  *d 
be  ready  for  them ;  and  so  both  one  and  other  'ud  be  saved ;  for  the  time 's  past 
when  they  could  ha'  rid  the  country  o'  these  beggarly  Cromelians.  And  nothin' 
can  be  done  for  a  while,  any  way — I  tould  'em  this — and  more ;  but  I  'm  ould 
now,  and  they  never  heed  me." 

"  Why  didn't  ye  tell  it  at  the  'Squire's  yerself  ?"  interrupted  the  maiden. 

"  Do  you  indeed  think  me  mad  ?"  replied  the  woman  angrily.  "  D'  ye  think 
there 's  a  big  tree,  or  a  grey  stone,  about  the  place,  that,  when  such  things  are 
a-foot,  doesn't. hide  a  living  watch?  And  when  did  ye  see  the  descendant  of 
Irish  kings  darken,  as  a  beggar,  the  door  of  the  usurping  English  ?"  She 
stood  erect  on  the  cottage  floor,  and  looked  around  her  with  mingled  pride 
and  wildness. 

"  How  am  I  to  reach  the  house  alive,  if  it 's  beset  in  that  way  ?"  said  Kath- 
leen, giving  utterance  to  her  fears :  "  I  '11  jist  wait  for  Phil  Murphy,  and  we  '11  go 
together." 

The  woman  laughed  a  mad  laugh.  "For  Philip  Murphy,  is  it? — why,  he's 
the  ouldest  united  man  of  the  set ! — that 's  taking  a  lawyer  to  guide  ye  to 
heaven,  sure  enough  !" 

"  'T  is  false !"  retorted  Kathleen,  her  eyes  flashing,  and  her  cheek  crimsoning ; 
"  't  is  false !  Philip  Murphy  would  scorn  to  be  a  night-walker.  He  has  no  com- 
munion with  sich  ways — I  know  he  hasn't.  And  I  am " 

"  A  fool !"  interrupted  Mabel.  "  I  tell  you  he  has  ;  and,  if  he 's  caught,  he  '11 
be  hung — and  small  loss !" 


302 

"  Ye  're  a  bad  woman,  Mabel  O'Neil,  and  I  don't  care  for  your  wicked 
looks  a  bit  now  ;  but  I  '11  make  a  liar  of  ye — that  I  will ! — to  slander  a  dacent 
boy  after  such  fashion  !  I  '11  go,  this  minute,  to  'Squire  Johnson's ;  and,  if  any 
harm  happens  me — if  I  'm  murdered  outright — I  '11  follow  ye  night  and  day, 

and " 

"  That 's  my  thanks  for  saving  the  worthless  lives  o'  yer  fine  friends,  and, 
may-be,  of  yer  bachelor !  Ay,  go — go ;  but  stop,  as  ye  hope  to  live,  and  do 
•well ;  take  some  eggs  in  this  basket — anything,  as  a  cloak  ;  and  swear  never — 
but  I  needn't  make  you  promise — none  of  ye  ever  turned  informer" 

Poor  Kathleen  did  as  she  was  desired ;  resumed  the  despised  brogues ;  and, 
without  speaking  another  word,  or  being  able  even  to  arrange  her  thoughts, 
took  the  path  she  had,  with  very  different  feelings,  watched  her  lover  pursue, 
about  half  an  hour  before.  The  hag,  who  had  caused  so  much  consternation, 
was  again  re-seated,  and  rocking  herself  over  the  embers  of  the  fire  ;  in  a  few 
moments,  muttering  some  words  of  unknown  import,  she  lit  her  pipe,  and, 
slowly  rising,  departed  from  the  cottage  in  an  opposite  direction  to  that  which 
Kathleen  had  taken. 

•It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  various  feelings  that  agitated  the 
bosom  of  poor  Kate,  as  she  thought  of  Philip,  and  his  uniform  correctness  of 
conduct ;  and,  although  she  had  not  the  intuitive  horror  of  illegal  meetings 
that  an  English  girl  of  her  age  would  have  possessed,  yet  she  feared  for  his 
safety;  and  the  idea  of  danger  to  him  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  Could 
she,  by  any  means  in  her  power,  prevent  his  joining  the  party  that  night  ? 
She  knew  that  the  alarm  once  given,  Mr.  Johnson  had  a  sufficient  number  of 
partisans  in  the  country  to  identify,  at  all  events,  some  of  the  conspirators, 
and  the  beloved  of  her  heart  might  thus  be  covered  with  shame.  Should  she 
avoid  discovering  the  plot  to  the  'Squire's  family?  She  shuddered  to  think  of 
the  dreadful  result;  and  the  remembrance  of  her  delicate  foster-sister — the 
hours  they  had  spent  together  in  their  infancy,  rambling  by  the  silver  stream — 
or,  amid  the  bending  grain,  seeking  the  scarlet  poppy,  and  the  blue  corn- 
flower :  or,  in  riper  years,  the  numberless  times  she  had  climbed  the  forked 
trees,  to  gather  for  the  lady-playmate,  the  early-blossoming  sloe,  or  the 
golden  laburnum — the  look  of  affectionate  thankfulness,  with  which  the  prize 
was  received,  came  again  upon  her ;  and  she  hastened  her  steps  to  save  one 
whom  she  had  ever  loved. 

The  ties  of  fosterage,  in  Ireland,  are  frequently  stronger  than  those  of 
kindred  ;  the  foster-sister,  or  brother,  remains,  through  life,  the  devoted  friend 
—  the  faithful  ally  —  the  obedient  servant.  In  adversity,  they  shield  and 
succour ;  and,  in  prosperity  like  the  humble  and  affectionate  woodbine,  what 
they  cannot  aid  or  support,  they  cling  to,  and  perfume  by  the  odour  of  devoted 
tenderness. 

"May  the  Holy  Mother  direct  me!"  thought  Kate,  as  she  passed  into  a 
path- way  that  led  to  a  continuation  of  corn-fields,  rich  in  their  young  greenery ; 
and,  as  she  looked  beyond  them  on  the  solitary  landscape,  her  eye  found 


CURSE.  303 

nought  to  rest  upon,  indicative  of  human  habitation,  save  a  long  barn,  which 
had  been  constructed  as  a  safe  place  to  stow  corn  in,  during  rainy  weather,  be- 
fore it  could  be  conveniently  lodged  in  the  hag-yard.  It  was  a  strong  building, 
with  a  widely-opening  gate  or  door ;  lonely  in  its  situation,  though  many  a  har- 
vest-home had  been  held  within  its  walls.  On  Kate  journeyed,  with  a  firmer 
step,  but  an  aching  heart,  until,  moving  in  the  distance  towards  her,  she  saw  a 
figure,  which  she  instantly  recognised  as  that  of  her  lover. 

"  Kate,  darling  !"  he  exclaimed,  bounding  forward :  "  Kate,  darling !  what 
brought  ye  this  road  ?  •  Kate  !  What  ails  my  colleen  1  Kathleen  ! — why  do  ye 
shrink  from  me,  yer  own  Philip  ?"  He  passed  his  arm  round  her  waist,  feeling, 
and  almost  hearing,  the  quick  throbbings  of  her  heart.  She  struggled  nobly 
with  her  agitation,  while  conflicting  ideas  rushed  through  her  brain,  scorching 
and  rapid  as  lightning.  But  soon,  with  the  ready  wit  of  woman,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Just  lead  me  to  that  barn-door,  and  I  can  sit  awhile  on  the  stone  that 's  be- 
side it — I  '11  soon  come  round,  Phil."  He  placed  her  on  the  stone ;  and,  when 
she  looked  on  his  kind  and  anxious  countenance,  hardly  could  she  imagine  that 
he  was  linked  with  those  whose  thirst  was  for  blood. 

"  The  stone  is  could,  Phil,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 

"  Bad  manners  to  me,  that  didn't  think  of  that  afore,  Katy,  darling !  Sure  I 
can  get  ye  a  nice  clean  lock  o'  straw,  off  the  hurdles  inside,  to  sit  upon,  if  I  can 
only  pull  this  great  kipeen  out  of  the  hasp." 

No  sooner  said  than  done ;  the  "  kipeen"  was  extracted ;  but  while  Philip 
was  making  his  way  to  the  hurdles,  that  were  at  the  farthermost  end  of  the 
building,  Kathleen  rushed  to  the  door,  closed  and  hasped  it,  restoring  the  fasten- 
ing-stick to  its  old  situation,  and  hammering  it  down  with  all  her  might.  Hav- 
ing ascertained  that  it  was  firmly  fixed,  she  flew  along  her  path,  almost  with  the 
lightness  and  rapidity  of  a  startled  lapwing,  leaving  Philip  Murphy  in,  what  she 
considered,  safe  custody,  for  that  night  at  least.  "  Thank  God  !"  she  exclaimed, 
as  the  turrets  and  chimneys  of  the  old  mansion,  that  Mabel  O'Neil  had  so  loved, 
appeared  through  the  twilight;  then,  pausing  for  breath,  she  raised  her  clasped 
hands  to  heaven,  and  again  repeated,  in  an  earnest  tone,  "  Thank  God  !"  adding, 
still  more  fervently,  "  I  will  save  all." 

The  gable  end  of  the  house  rested  against  the  ruins  of  one  of  those  castles 
of  the  Elizabethan  age,  so  generally  scattered  over  Ireland  ;  and  the  chamber 
window  of  Caroline  Johnson,  set  as  it  were,  in  the  castle  wall,  overlooked  a 
wild  and  variegated  scene  of  hill  and  valley ;  while  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of 
Irish  rivers  bounded,  as  with  a  band  of  molten  silver,  the  distant  meadows. 

Caroline  had  often  gazed  upon  this  sweet  and  varying  landscape ;  and  a 
good  deal  of  romance,  produced,  perhaps,  by  the  surrounding  scenery,  mingled 
with  her  natural  character,  which,  otherwise,  would  have  been  more  regulated 
and  reserved  than  that  of  the  generality  of  her  fair  countrywomen.  She  might 
be  considered  alone  amid  the  people,  such  as  they  were,  with  whom  she  asso- 
ciated— a  garden  flower  blossoming  unwillingly  amongst  wild  and  uncultivated 
weeds.  She  was  the  youngest  and  the  only  surviving  child  of  her  father's 


304  MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE. 

house,  and  many  wondered  how  so  graceful  a  stem  could  have  sprung  from 
such  a  root 

The  long  French  casement  of  this  fair  girl's  dwelling,  with  its  white 
draperies  and  roseate  fringe,  but  ill  accorded  with  the  time-worn  stones  and 
mouldering  battlements  of  the  old  castle ;  while  the  roses,  which  she  cultivated 
in  the  deep  embrasure  of  the  walls,  shed  their  perfume  and  their  beauty  over 
the  gigantic  ivy  and  many-coloured  lichens.  As  Kate  passed  under  this  fa- 
voured window,  she  looked  up,  and  saw  her  beloved  foster-sister,  as  usual, 
busied  among  her  plants.  Placing  her  foot  on  a  slight  projection,  she  seized  an 
overhanging  branch,  and,  after  one  or  two  successful  springs,  performed  with  all 
the  agility  of  a  free-footed  Irish  lass,  stood,  eggs,  and  all,  on  the  rustic  balcony, 
to  the  no  small  surprise  of  her  young  lady.  When  a  few  minutes  had  elapsed, 
and  Kate's  feelings  had  vented  themselves  in  tears,  as  quickly  as  possible  she 
informed  her  friend  of  the  object  of  her  mission. 

"  Ye  see,  Miss  Car'line,  it 's  what  they  want  is  to  murder,  burn,  and  destroy 
every  mother's  soul  of  the  whole  of  ye — and  there's  no  time  to  be  lost;  for 
look — the  red  flame  beams  from  Knock  Mountain,  which  is  as  bad  as  the 
devil's  watchword — God  save  us  !  Whenever  that  fire  lights,  you  may  be  sure 
mischief's  going  on ; — and  there  is  a  long  story  about  that  same  mountain, 
which  I  '11  tell  you  some  day  or  other;  only  now,  Miss  Car'line,  be  quick,  and 
away  to  the  master,  for  there 's  no  time  to  lose — and  the  heart  within  me  sinks 
when  I  think  of  the  danger." 

This  sensible  advice  was  soon  followed,  and  arrangements  were  as  quickly 
made  for  defence.  The  house,  in  common  with  many  in  the  county  Carlow,  at 
the  time  to  which  I  allude,  was  well  prepared — the  men-servants  were  imme- 
diately armed,  and  a  half-witted,  but  cunning  and  faithful,  retainer  was  des- 
patched secretly  to  the  next  police  station,  to  give  the  necessary  information. 

Miss  Johnson  would  not,  of  course,  permit  Kathleen  to  hazard  a  return  to  her 
cottage  that  evening ;  and,  as  she  often  remained  with  "  her  young  lady,*'  the 
circumstance  was  not  likely  to  excite  suspicion.  She,  however,  stayed  in  her 
foster-sister's  room,  and  employed  her  fingers,  almost  mechanically,  in  telling 
over  the  beads  that  had  been  her  mother's ;  her  thoughts — uncontrollable  wan- 
derers— doubtless  visiting  Philip  and  her  father ;  and  never  did  Persian  worship- 
pers pray  more  fervently  for  the  presence  of  their  deity,  than  did  both  females 
for  the  speedy  approach  of  morning. 

At  length,  weak  and  nervous  from  watching,  Miss  Johnson  fancied  she  could 
sleep.  "Can  you  plait  my  hair,  Kathleen?"  she  inquired,  as  the  withdrawn 
band  unfastened  the  long  tresses  that  fell,  in  rich  clusters,  over  her  polished 
shoulders. 

"  Sure  I  can;  I  always  do  my  own — not  that  I  'd  be  after  comparing  them," 
replied  the  maiden,  as  she  slipped  the  rosary  on  her  arm,  and  prepared  to  divide 
the  silken  hair. 

"  But  I  interrupt  your  prayers." 

"  Oh,  no  consequence  in  life,  that,  Miss !  it 's  jist  a  nice  employment  when 


MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE.  305 

I  've  nothin'  particular  to  do ;  and  a  comfort,  somehow,  to  be  thinking  that,  in 
the  hoight  o'  trouble  and  dismay,  the  Lord's  ear  is  always  open  to  me,  to  say 
nothin'  o'  the  holy  saints,  and  others.  Besides,"  she  added,  sighing  deeply, 
"  I  always  say  my  prayers  best  on  the  beads  of  my  poor  mother  (God  be 
good  to  her !) — when  I  lay  my  fingers  to  them,  it 's  jist  as  if  she  was  with  me 
herself." 

"  After  all,  Kate,  you  must  be  a  happy  girl ;  you  have  nothing  to  trouble  you 
— no  world  to  please,  no " 

"  Oh,  Miss,  machree  !  it 's  little  ye  know  if  ye  think  that ;  sure  there  's  my 
father  to  plase,  and  the  childer  to  look  after,  and " 

"  Philip  Murphy  to  look  after,"  added  Miss  Johnson,  glancing  at  her  attend- 
ant; who,  it  may  easily  be  imagined,  had  not  breathed  a  word,  even  to  her 
lady,  of  the  barn  adventure,  or  her  suspicions  concerning  Philip.  Kate's  fingers 
trembled,  and  she  soon  converted  what  had  commenced  as  a  three,  into  a  five, 
plait;  so  that,  at  last,  Miss  Johnson's  patience  was  exhausted,  and  she  could  not 
avoid  saying,  "  I  know  you  are  tangling  my  hair,  Kathleen."  As  she  looked  in 
the  glass,  that  reflected  the  figures  of  both,  the  trifling  displeasure  she  had  felt 
was  instantly  removed  on  observing  that  large  tear-drops  chased  each  other 
down  the  poor  girl's  cheeks. 

"  No  coolness  between  you  and  your  bachelor,  I  hope,  Kathleen  1"  she  added, 
in  her  kindest  voice. 

"  Oh,  Miss,  Miss !"  replied,  Kate,  clasping  her  hands  with  painful  earnest- 
ness, "  do  not  ask  me  ;  I  can  say  nothin'  about  him  till  after  the  morrow — oh, 
do  not  ask  me !"  She  then,  without  uttering  another  word,  flung  herself  on 
her  knees,  and  told  over  the  beads  with  all  possible  rapidity,  as  if  haste 
afforded  relief  to  her  overcharged  heart.  At  this  moment,  the  contrast 
between  the  two  girls,  so  different  in  rank  and  appearance,  would  have  been 
highly  interesting  to  any  painter  of  feeling  and  sentiment : — Miss  Johnson, 
part  of  whose  unbraided  hair  hung  negligently  around  her,  pressed  her  fore- 
head to  her  hand ;  and,  as  her  long,  pencilled  lashes  almost  rested  on  the  soft 
roundness  of  her  delicate  cheek,  the  lustre  of  her  clear  blue  eyes  was  inter- 
cepted by  fast-coming  tears,  that  hung  like  drops  of  dew  on  the  gossamer 
webs  of  morning.  She  might  have  reminded  one  of  that  exquisite  passage  in 
Shelley— 

"She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of  brightness, 
A  power,  that  from  its  objects  scarcely  drew 
One  impulse  of  her  being — in  her  lightness 
Most  like  some  radiant  cloud  of  morning  dew, 
Which  wanders  through  the  waste  air's  pathless  blue 
To  nourish  some  far  desert : 


Like  the  bright  shade  of  some  immortal  dream 

Which  walks,  when  tempest  sleeps,  the  wave  of  life's  dark  stream." 


306  MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE. 

How  frequently,  in  a  crowded  picture-gallery,  do  we  pass,  almost  without 
notice,  some  exquisite  gem  of  art,  that,  singly  in  an  unadorned  chamber,  we 
should  gaze  upon  with  rapture !  Woman,  to  be  loved  and  valued  as  she  de- 
serves, must  be  seen  and  known  in  solitude — I  had  almost  added,  in  sorrow. 
The  lily's  fragrance  is  of  more  value  when  it  blossoms  and  sheds  its  perfume  in 
the  wilderness,  than  when  only  one  amid  a  multitude  of  flowers. 

Another  hour  had  passed,  and  her  slight  and  graceful  figure  still  reclined 
on  the  arm  of  an  old-fashioned,  high-backed  chair ;  the  full  light  of  a  painted 
glowing  lamp  fell,  in  all  its  brightness  and  varied  hues,  upon  her  beautifully- 
shaped  head ;  her  form  was  the  perfection  of  symmetry,  yet  shaped  in  so  fairy 
a  mould  that,  in  their  youthful  days,  Kathleen  used  to  boast  she  could  carry 
Miss  Caroline  a  mile  in  one  hand,  and  never  know  she  was  there.  Kate's 
round,  red  arms,  sun-burnt  skin,  as  she  knelt  with  her  back  to  the  light — her 
tight,  trim  figure,  and  rustic  dress,  showed  strangely,  combined  with  the  apart- 
ment and  its  mistress.  Still  she  industriously  told  her  beads;  and,  as  her 
young  lady  gazed  upon  her,  she  pondered  many  a  painful  thought  on  what 
might  be  the  destiny  of  both.  "  Poor  girl !"  she  ejaculated,  "  I  thought  that 
you,  at  least,  would  have  been  happy.  So  good  a  daughter ;  so  undyingly 
attached  to  one  of  your  own  people — to  one,  too,  of  a  kind  and  gentle  cha- 
racter! Why  is  it?  (and  her  fair  brow  lowered  and  gloomed,  as  her  thoughts 
proceeded) ; — why  is  it — the  feeling  that  unfolds  as  womanhood  advances,  even 
as  the  petals  of  the  blushing  rose  expand  to  the  sun,  which  at  first  glows  and 
encourages,  but,  when  the  fragrance  is  extracted,  and  the  canker  has  entered 
through  their  folded  leaves,  scorches,  into  a  loathed  mass  of  fadedness,  what  its 
rays  at  first  had  cherished — why  is  it  that  it  leads  to  misery,  and  yet  we  nourish 
it  within  our  bosom  ?"  She  raised  her  head,  and  shook  it,  as  if  to  dispel  such 
painful  feeling;  but  was  again  relapsing,  as  the  workings  of  her  features  plainly 
showed,  into  the  same  train  of  thought,  when  a  volley  of  musketry,  followed  by 
a  shout  from  the  plantations,  alarmed  both  the  lady  and  the  peasant;  in- 
stinctively they  clung  to  each  other,  when  a  second,  from  its  proximity,  terrified 
them  still  more.  Kathleen  supported  Miss  Johnson  to  her  bed,  and  resumed  her 
kneeling  position  at  its  side ;  again,  all  was  silence. 

The  cool,  grey  light  of  morning  streamed  upon  the  pale  and  slumbering  lids 
of  the  young  lady;  soon,  however,  her  father's  voice  called  upon  her  to  arise. 
"It's  eight  o'clock,  Carry,  and  I  am  going  to  have  an  examination  of  some 
prisoners  brought  in  this  morning;  you  have  now  an  opportunity  of  seeing,  in 
safety,  who  these  rascals  are." 

She  descended  to  the  long,  rambling  hall,  where  her  father  was  already 
seated  in  due  formality;  his  little  rotund  person  exalted  on  a  high  chair  of  dig- 
nity corresponding  with  the  occasion.  Mr.  Johnson's  eye,  in  general,  bore  the 
expression  of  calm  severity,  but  when  aroused,  indicated  fierce  and  dangerous 
passion;  his  mouth  was  the  redeeming  feature  of  his  countenance — its  forma- 
tion full,  and  even  tender — and  his  smile  (when  it  came)  sweetness  itself.  This 


MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE.  307 

singular  physiognomy,  perhaps,  led  to  the  following  remarks  from  two  gossiping 
servants  who  stood  at  the  lower  end  of  the  hall. 

"  Och !  and  it 's  himself  that  carries  the  oak-stick  between  his  eyes,  any 
way." 

"  Hould  yer  whisht,  Nilly  ! — sure  it 's  his  honour  that  bangs  the  world  for  the 
crame  o'  sweet  smiles,  when  he  has  a  mind." 

"  Sour  crame,  I  'm  thinkin',"  retorted  the  other ;  "  but  how  pale  the  young  mis- 
tress looks,  this  morning !"  she  continued,  as  Caroline  and  her  humble  companion 
appeared  on  the  stairs.  "  Well,  sure  the  master  has  sweetness  enough  while  he 
has  that  darlint ;  no  pride  in  her — see  how  she  puts  her  fosterer's  hand  under 
her  arm  as  if  she  was  a  lady  ! — why,  Katey  Ryley  is  as  pale  as  herself,  only 
her  skin  is  another  colour." 

From  the  spot  where  Miss  Johnson  stood,  when  these  remarks  were  made,  a 
group  of  Irish  motley  were  presented.  "  The  man  in  authority ,'*  seated  in 
the  high-backed  chair,  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase — a  huge  table  before  him, 
on  which  was  piled  a  large  collection  of  law-books,  in  dingy  covers.  At  his 
right  hand,  on  a  low  chair,  (which,  being  seated  thereon,  prevented  his  chin 
rising  much  beyond  a  level  with  the  table),  appeared  Denny,  Dennis,  or,  classi- 
cally speaking,  Dionysius  Flannery,  the  beetle-browed  butler  and  clerk  of  the 
house  of  Johnson  —  employed  in  wiping  the  ink  out  of  his  pen  on  the  cuff  of 
his  coat,  previous  to  rendering  the  same  fit  for  service.  Long  foolscap  lay 
before  him;  nor -must  I  forget  the  well-thumbed  prayer-book,  kissed,  many  a 
time  and  oft,  by  the  false  and  the  true.  Dionysius  was,  or  at  least,  considered 
himself,  a  man  of  learning,  having  travelled,  as  a  poor  scholar,  the  wilds  of 
the  kingdom  of  Kerry,  and  officiated  as  head-master  in  the  hedge-school  of 
Glen-Moyle.  He  consequently  opined  that  Mr.  Johnson  had  secured  a  per- 
fect treasure  in  his  person.  Towards  the  centre,  the  police-sergeant — a  tall, 
lanky  fellow,  with  a  shock  of  red,  rough  hair,  and  eyes  that  set  at  defiance 
all  direct  rules  —  stood  a  little  in  advance,  ready  to  swear  to  the  depositions 
that  had  been  already  taken.  Farther  back,  some  four  or  five  policemen  kept 
their  hands  on  their  arms,  notwithstanding  that  two  of  the  prisoners  were  firmly 
manacled.  One  of  these,  a  slight,  trembling  old  man,  stood,  so  as  to  shield  his 
face  from  the  observation  of  "  the  gentry ;"  the  other  absolutely  grinned  with 
an  appearance  of  savage  good-nature  on  the  proceedings;  while  the  third, 
whom  everybody  recognised  as  "  Hurling  Moriarty  of  Ballinla,"  leaned,  with 
folded  arms,  against  a  pillar,  now  glancing  at  the  magistrate,  and  then  at  the 
crowd,  which  nearly  filled  the  hall,  and  extended  beyond  the  opened  door  to 
the  lawn,  and  even  the  plantations  in  front ;  it  consisted  chiefly  of  men — some 
with  coats — some  without ;  a  few  females,  eager  to  ascertain  the  nature  of  the 
proceedings,  had  left  their  cabins  before  their  hair  was  snooded,  or  their  cloaks 
fastened  ;  but  the  prominent  features  of  the  accumulating  assembly  manifested 
anxietv  and  uneasiness^  and  their  murmurs  and  surmises  were,  at  times,  more 
than  half  audible;  even  the  countenances  of  the  police,  who  were  scattered 
amid  the  throng,  expressed  the  same  feeling — the  same  agitation.  Moriarty 


308  MABEL  O'NEILLS  CURSE. 

might  have  served  as  the  model  of  an  Hercules ;  his  appearance  bespoke 
strength — his  bearing,  fearlessness — compressed  lips — dark  and  penetrating 
eyes — the  contour  evincing  more  than  common  genius,  and — alas !  that  it  should 
be  so  ! — more  than  common  vice  !  When  his  lips  parted,  they  parted  in  scorn, 
a  movement  that  was  particularly  evident  as  his  glance  rested  on  the  rotund 
magistrate.  His  hat  had  not  been  taken  off  on  entering  the  presence;  but 
when  the  young  lady  descended,  and  took  the  seat  prepared  for  her,  a  little  be- 
hind her  father,  the  covering  was  instantly  removed,  and  the  figure  resumed  a 
respectful  position. 

"  Police-sergeant  Smith,"  commenced  the  justice,  "  what  is  the  reason  that 
one  prisoner,  whom,  I  regret  to  say,  has  so  often,  I  understand,  appeared  else- 
where, under  disgraceful  circumstances,  should  be  unmanacled  ?" 

"  Plaze  yer  honour,"  replied  the  sapient  sergeant,  "  we  are  always  wish- 
ful to  avoid  the  shedding  of  blood ;  and  so,  knowing  that,  if  this  honest 
man " 

"What  do  you  mean  by  calling  such  a  scoundrel  an  honest  man  in  my 
presence  ?"  interrupted  the  magistrate,  angrily. 

"  I  ax  yer  honour's  pardon :  I  didn't  mean  to  call  any  one  here  an  honest 
man:  only,  ye  see,  in  regard  of  Hurling  Morty's  always  being  known  to  keep 
his  word,  either  for  good  or  bad ;  and,  says  he,  '  I  '11  give  you  my  honour  as  a 
gentleman,'  says  he,  « that  I  '11  not  stir  hand  or  fut,  only  walk  aisy  into  the  hall, 
if  ye  don't  offer  to  tie  me,'  says  he." 

"  That  wasn't  all  the  rason,  though,  ye  slip  o'  hazel !"  exclaimed  the 
Hurler,  casting  a  scornful  look  at  the  poor  sergeant ;  "  you  couldn't  tie  me — 
no,  nor  tin  of  ye  together — though  ye  trapped  me  as  if  I  was  a  fox  or  a 
weasel ;  but  I  have  no  fear  of  coming  here,  for  ye  can  prove  nothin'  agin  me ; 
_and " 

"  Sure  he  murdered  me  intirely ;  —  me,  yer  worship !"  shouted  a  little 
policeman,  in  the  corner,  who  by  dint  of  fist  and  elbows,  was  trying  to  make 
his  way  through  the  crowd ;  "  he  hot  me  right  over  the  head — I  '11  swear  it, 
your  honour." 

"  Put  that  down,  my  fine  penman  —  that  I  hot  him  over  the  head,"  observed 
Moriarty,  addressing  the  clerk  ;  "  it 's  down,  is  it  ?  —  over  the  head  ?  Well, 
now,  ye  little,  miserable,  half-starved  morsel,  that  it  would  be  insult  even  to  the 
trade,  such  as  it  is,  that  owns  ye,  to  call  a  tailor.— ye  're  parjured  !  He  says  I 
hot  him  over  the  head,  yer  honour ;  I  can  prove  that  it  was  on  the  head — a  fair, 
firm  rap,  just  to  see  if  it  had  any  brains  in  it ;  I  'd  scorn  to  hit  anything  over  the 
head  !" 

The  mob  enjoyed  the  jest — the  little  policeman  groaned ;  while  another  of  the 
party  exclaimed,  "  Hould  yer  prate,  Barney  ! — It 's  asy  talking  wid  ye ;— plaze 
yer  worship,  he  made  a  fair  riddle  o'  me  for  the  moon  to  shine  through,  just  wid 
one  stroke  of  his  sledge  of  a  fist." 

"  Och  !  and  what  will  I  do  intirely  ? — and  the  sight  of  my  two  good-looking 
eyes  as  dark  as  a  dungeon,  wid  the  tratement  I  got  from  him,  and  he  on  his  back 


MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE.  309 

at  t'  other  side  the  ring  fence,  after  we  tripped  him — the  grate  monster !"  vo- 
ciferated a  third. 

"  Ye  're  all  a  pack  of  false-swearing  Peelers,"  exclaimed  an  old  woman ; 
"  sure  it 's  himself  that  wasn't  there  at  ail,  at  all,  as  I  'm  ready  to  prove,  if  it 's 
truth  ye  're  after,  and  not  law,  but " 

"  Silence  in  the  court,  I  say  !"  shouted  Dionysius  Flannery ;  "  were  ye  niver 
before  a  magistrate,  till  now,  ye  unrooly  pack  ?  Listen,  while  I  read  the  depo- 
sition to  his  worship." 

The  deposition  set  forth,  in  quaint  Irish  phraseology — "  that,  being  aware  that 
seditious  organization  (of  course  Miss  Johnson  had  taken  care  that  Kathleen 
should  not  be  suspected  as  the  informant),  and  a  most  horrible  plan  for  burning 
and  murder  were  meditated,  Police-Sergeant  Smith,  with  collected  forces,  dis- 
persed around  Cairn  Castle — that,  skulking  behind  the  new  plantation,  they  dis- 
covered and  took  prisoner,  Moriarty  Sullivan — " 

"  That 's  one  lie ;  and  the  skulking  's  another !"  exclaimed  Morty,  in  a  deep, 
firm  voice ;  "  ye  didn't  take  me ;  ye  snared  me,  as  ye  would  a  hare  !" 

"  Mighty  like  a  hare  ye  are !"  replied  another  policeman,  whose  head  was 
bound  in  a  stocking:  "plaze  yer  honour's  glory,  he  knocked  us  clane  about  like 
young  goslings,  until  little  Mike  Corish  and  big  Kit,  and  another  boy  (big  Kit's 
father,  by  the  same  token),  got  a  piece  o'  the  road  afore  him,  and  threw  a  rope 
on  the  ground ;  and,  ye  see,  he  was  bating  the  boys  with  his  pike-handle,  and 
his  baste  of  a  gun  (he  hadn't  time  but  for  one  volley,  yer  worship — back- 
\vards,)whin  we  tripped  him  up,  and  before  he  could  say  'Munster,'  we  had  the 
half  of  him — his  legs — axing  yer  pardon — safe, — seein'  we  twishted  and  twishted 
the  cable  round  it — " 

"  Silence !"  again  vociferated  Dionysius,  while  stifled  expressions  of — 
"  unfair  !"  —  "  beggarly  Peelers  !"  —  "  cursed  Orangemen  !"  —  "  fine  boy !"  — 
"  more 's  the  pity  !" — and  such  like,  murmured  amid  the  crowd. 

"  Took  prisoners,  Moriarty  Sullivan,"  recommenced  the  clerk,  "  Phelim 
Me  Gunn,  and  Philip  Murphy — " 

"  Tis  false  !"  shrieked  Kathleen,  rushing  from  behind  Miss  Johnson's  chair 
(where  she  had  hitherto  leaned,  a  mute  hut  most  anxious  spectator  of  the  pro- 
ceedings), and  confronting  the  astonished  Dinny — "  I  say,  I  know  't  is  false  ! 
Philip  Murphy  was  not — could  not — have  been  there!  I — I  myself  locked — " 
Almost  stifled  by  agitation,  she  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  firmness, 
added,  "  If  you  took  him,  where  is  he  ?" 

"  Here,  agra !"  squeaked  the  trembling,  little  old  man,  "  to  my  sorrow, 
a  coushla — God  break  hard  fortune !"  Poor  Kathleen  staggered  towards  the 
crowd — looked,  for  a  moment,  on  the  namesake  of  her  lover — and  a  faint  laugh 
sprang  to  her  lip,  as  she  fell  senseless  into  the  arms  of  those  who  were  nearest 
to  her. 

"  There's  Kate  Ryley's  own  Philip  Murphy  running  like  mad  !"  exclaimed  a 
neighbour.  On  the  instant,  the  young  man  entered  the  hall,  evidently  much 
discomposed,  and  unable  to  comprehend  the  proceedings ;  and  as  he  stood,  for 


310  MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE. 

a  moment,  in  the  glory  of  excited  and  youthful  beauty,  beside  the  aged  person 
who,  it  was  now  understood,  bore  the  same  name,  the  contrast  between  the  two 
turned  instantly  the  quick  current  of  Irish  feeling,  and  a  merry  burst  of 
laughter  shook  the  oaken  rafters,  even  while  the  sounds  of  execration  lingered 
round  the  walls.  The  attention  of  the  police  being  momentarily  diverted, 
Philip  Murphy,  senior,  got  rid  of  his  nervous  affection,  and  managed  also  to 
get  rid,  in  some  unaccountable  way,  of  the  vile  bonds  which,  it  is  to  be 
suspected,  too  slightly  restrained  his  motions.  Swift  as  Robin  Hood's  own 
arrow,  the  ci-devant  old  man  darted  through  the  assembly,  which,  out  of  pure 
love  of  what  they  considered  "  fair  play,"  facilitated  his  escape.  Away  he  flew, 
amid  the  applauding  and  encouraging  cheers  of  the  peasantry,  and  the  yells  of 
the  police.  "  Fire  !  Dead  or  alive,  bring  him  back  !"  shouted  the  magistrate, 
descending  from  his  chair  of  state.  "  Ye  'd  better  take  heels  after  him  yerself," 
said  Moriarty,  in  a  scornful  tone,  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  worthy  'Squire, 
who  went  stumping  past  him. 

"  Fetch  his  honour  Pangandrum's  boots,  can't  ye,"  observed  another,  "  to 
lengthen  his  legs  a  bit  ?"  "  Look  to  these  two  fellows  immediately !"  inter- 
rupted the  enraged  justice,  while  his  face  bloated  and  swelled  like  a  turkey- 
cock  angered  at  the  sight  of -a  scarlet  cloak.  "  No  need  in  life  for  the  trouble," 
replied  Moriarty ;  "  I  said  I  wouldn't  run,  nor  I  'm  not  going  to  demane  my- 
self. I  scorn  a  lie  as  much,  and  may-be  more,  than  e'er  a  lord  in  the  three 
kingdoms.  Sorra  a  thing  ye  can  prove  agin  me,  this  turn,  that  '11  keep  me  in 
more  than  three  months — though  I'd  rather  it  was  four;  for  it's  little  I  can  be 
after  these  summer  evenings,  when  the  nights  are  so  short  and  so  light,  and 
the  sun  keeps  blinking  about  a  dale  longer  than  he  ought,  if  he  knew  manners." 
The  latter  part  of  this  speech  was  lost  upon  Mr.  Johnson,  who  had  hurried 
forward  to  the  hall-door,  where  a  wild  and  singular  scene  presented  itself. 
The  rapidity  with  which  "  Phil  Murphy,  of  Tullagh,"  already  recognised  as 
"  Swift-footed  Phil,"  a  fearless,  and,  consequently,  popular  rapparee,  proceeded, 
was  even  less  wonderful  than  the  evenness  of  his  steps ;  and  the  sort  of  flying, 
swallow-like  motion  which  he  kept  up,  as  he  bowled  along  the  smooth  green- 
sward, and  sprang,  with  the  lightness  of  a  bird,  over  the  bounds-ditch  that 
terminated  the  ancient  lawn.  While  his  pursuers  were  scrambling  up  and 
down  the  tangled  enclosure,  the  culprit  made  rapid  way,  first  through  a  clover 
field,  then  across  the  undulating  ridges  of  a  potato  enclosure,  rich  in  its  lilac 
and  orange  blossoms.  "Fire  on  him!"  again  vociferated  Mr.  Johnson;  and 
the  long,  sandy  serjeant  took  aim,  fired,  and  wounded  —  not  him  of  the  swift 
foot,  but  a  favourite  horse  of  the  'Squire's,  that  had  strayed,  in  search  of  for- 
bidden food,  into  the  enclosure.  "  Och !  may  ye  iver  have  the  same  luck!" 
exclaimed  several  peasant  voices  at  once ;  while  "  swift-footed  Phil,"  without 
lessening  his  speed,  threw  up  his  old  white  wig,  in  triumph,  and  then  the 
coolen  of  dark  hair,  released  from  its  confinement,  fell  in  abundant  tresses, 
over  his  throat  and  shoulders.  At  the  bottom  of  the  potato-field  ran  a  narrow- 
but  deep  stream,  a  branch  of  the  river  I  have  before  alluded  to,  the  depth  and 


MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE.  311 

rapidity  of  which  had  been  greatly  increased  by  recent  rains.  Into  it,  how- 
ever, the  daring  robber  plunged,  swam  like  an  otter,  and  in  a  few  moments, 
was  on  the  opposite  side.  "The  coble! — the  coble!"  exclaimed  one  of  the 
police.  They  ran  towards  an  old  willow,  where  it  was  moored,  although  the 
thickness  of  its  branches  effectually  concealed  the  little  boat  from  their  sight, 
as  the  leafy  screen  seemed  rooted  in  the  waters.  Before  they  reached  it, 
however,  to  their  utter  discomfiture,  it  glided  from  its  moorings,  guided  by  no 
other  than  our  old  acquaintance,  Mabel  O'Neil,  chanting,  as  she  waved  and 
kissed  her  hand,  with  mock  solemnity,  to  the  "  men  at  arms,"  a  verse  of  an  old 

ballad^ 

"The  boat  and  the  water 
'  Were  made  for  the  free ; 
The  gaol  and  the  city 
Are  fitter  for  ye." 

Those  who  could  swim,  would  not ;  those  who  would,  could  not.  Some,  who 
fancied  they  were  competent  to  the  undertaking,  got  soused  and  bemired,  as  a 
punishment  for  their  temerity,  and  received  the  jests  of  a  merciless  multitude, 
including  all  the  barelegged  urchins — all  the  barking  and  snapping  of  collies — 
the  taunting  of  every  age  and  sex,  who  delighted  in  beholding  the  men  of  law 
and  the  men  of  war  outwitted.  The  beldame  floated  slowly  with  the  stream, 
still  singing  snatches'  of  an  old  melody,  waving  her  bony  arms  in  wild  and 
fearful  attitudes,  and  intimating,  by  her  gestures,  the  most  perfect  contempt 
for  those  who  failed  in  their  attempts  to  arrest  her  progress.  "  Curse  the 
hag !"  muttered  Johnson,  enraged  at  all  the  morning's  occurrences,  "  she 's 
acting  in  concert  with  that  fellow,  and  ought  to  smart  for  it.  Smith,  you  're  a 
famous  shot ;  couldn't  you  skim  the  water,  hit  the  crazy  boat,  and  give  the  old 
devil  a  ducking !"  "  As  easy  as  kiss  my  hand,  sir,"  replied  the  ruffian,  calmly 
arranging  his  piece  for  the  purpose.  As  his  finger  rested  on  the  trigger,  one 
of  the  peasants  struck  the  gun  with  his  stick,  evidently  anxious  to  avert  the 
shot  from  its  intended  object. 

The  movement  was  unfortunate;  for  the  piece  went  off,  and  the  old  woman, 
uttering  an  agonizing  scream,  nearly  fell  over  the  edge  of  the  boat.  "  Good 
God !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Johnson,  his  better  feelings,  for  a  moment,  triumphing, 
"  you  have  struck  the  woman  !"  Urged  now  by  their  naturally  kind  and  active 
feelings,  the  peasantry  rushed  into  the  water,  and  soon  guided  the  coble  and  its 
helpless  freight  to  the  rushy  margin  of  the  water ;  it  was  sad  to  see  the  dark- 
red  stream  which  trickled  down  its  side,  and  left  a  dismal  track  upon  the 
rippling  wave,  as  they  dragged  it  to  the  shore. 

"  I  always  thought  it  would  end  this  way,"  said  the  dying  woman,  while 
speculation  faded  from  her  eyes,  and  the  glaze  of  death  appeared  beneath  their 
distended  lids.  "  There,  boys ;  the  only  thing  ye  can  do  for  Mabel  O'Neil  now, 
is  to  carry  her  up  to  the  ould  castle  and  let  her  draw  her  last  breath,  within  its 
walls." 

Mr.  Johnson  advanced  towards  the  party  who  were  preparing  to  obey  her 


312  MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE. 

directions,  though  it  is  impossible  to  know  whether  he  intended  to  forbid  or  to 
command  that  those  directions  should  be  fulfilled.  \ 

She  fixed  a  look  of  bitter  remembrance  and  scorn  on  the  magistrate ;  and, 
slowly  elevating  her  withered  hand,  beckoned  him  to  come  nearer.  He  did  so. 
She  succeeded  in  raising  herself  on  her  elbow,  and,  with  no  gentle  grasp,  drew 
his  head  so  down  that  her  mouth  nearly  touched  his  ear.  The  word,  or  words 
(they  could  not  have  been  many),  that  she  uttered,  sent  a  fearful  shudder  through 
his  frame ;  his  lips  quivered  and  grew  pale,  his  eye  deadened  within  its  socket, 
and  a  change,  as  extraordinary  as  it  was  sudden,  passed  over  his  whole  coun- 
tenance. He  uttered  no  reply ;  no  word  escaped  him, — he  but  motioned  the 
people  to  follow  to  his  house. 

As  the  melancholy  group  approached  the  mansion,  many,  who  had  been 
left  in  the  vestibule,  assembled  at  the  portal,  and,  amongst  them,  the  love- 
beaming  face  of  Kathleen  Ryley  was  easily  distinguished.  "  I  '11  be  even  wid 
ye,  yet,  Kate,  for  locking  me  up;  and  worse  than  all,  doubting  it's  among  such 
I'd  be,"  said  her  lover,  fondly ;  "to  keep  me  kicking  my  heels,  the  livelong 
night,  agin  that  baste  of  a  door,  where  I  might  ha'  been  still,  but  for  the  good 
Christian  who  gave  me  my  liberty  at  last ;  and  the  rats,  the  crathurs,  peepin' 
and  pryin'  at  me  from  their  holes — mad  angry  at  my  spoiling  their  supper! 
Kathleen,  astore,  wherever  there  is  love  there  ought  to  be  full  faith — but, 
whisht,  a  lanna, — och!  botheration  to  me  intirely  for  calling  a  tear  to  yer 
sweet  eye,  Kate;  though,  darlint,"  he  added,  as  the  maiden  smiled  it  away, 
"  it  made  you  look  more  beautiful  than  ever  I  see  you  afore,  and  that 's  a  bould 
word.  Bat  wait  till  I  catch  that  gostering  ould  Mabel  (XNeiJ,  and  I  '11  pay  her 
off,  I'll " 

"  Let  her  alone,  if  ye  're  wise,  my  tight  chap,"  interrupted  the  deep  voice 
of  Hurling  Moriarty ;  for,  though  this  conversation  had  been  carried  on  sotto 
voce  between  the  two  lovers,  Moriarty  caught  the  last  sentence,  as  he  joined 
the  group  that  had  accumulated  at  the  door.  The  party  bearing  the  wounded 
woman  had  now  entered  the  second  gate ;  they  had  been  obliged  to  return  by 
a  longer  path  than  they  had  taken  during  the  rapparee's  escape,  and  one  of 
the  gossipping  sisterhood  had  only  time  to  observe  to  Philip  Murphy,  that 
"  he  'd  better  not  turn  his  tongue  against  Mabel  O'Neil,  while  Morty  was  to 
the  fore — as  people-  did  say  that  he  was  a  son,  somehow  or  other,  o'  Mabel's 
own  —  and  it  was  bad  talking  ill  o'  parents  under  a  child's  breath," — when 
Mr.  Johnson  slowly  ascended  the  hall-steps,  followed  closely  by  some  three  or 
four  who  supported  the  unfortunate  woman.  Sergeant  Smith  had  taken  ad- 
vantage of  the  confusion  to  disappear ;  he  naturally  feared  the  reaction  that 
would  take  place,  in  the  minds  of  the  peasantry,  against  the  murderer  of  the 
being  who  had  so  long  been  looked  upon  with  either  fear  or  sympathy  by  all 
classes,  and  wisely  hastened  to  the  police-barracks  for  a  reinforcement  The 
eagle  glance  of  Hurling  Moriarty  rested,  for  a  moment,  on  the  ghastly  features 
of  his  reputed  mother,  and,  in  an  instant,  he  was  at  her  side. 

With  fearful  energy  he  grasped  her  cold  hand,  and  then  they  looked  into 


MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE.  313 

each  other's  countenances,  as  only  parent  arid  child  can  look,  when  the  tie — 
the  first,  and  the  dearest — is  about  to  be  broken  —  and  for  ever.  In  another 
moment,  his  ken  wandered  over  the  assembly,  inquiring  of  her  who  had  done 
the  deed ;  and,  almost  unwittingly,  perhaps,  her  look  rested  on  the  magistrate, 
•who  had  entered  the  hall,  thrown  off  his  hat,  and,  having  covered  his  burning 
brow  with  his  hands,  remained  leaning  against  one  of  the  oaken  supporters  of 
the  ancient  structure. 

It  was  enough  ; — a  bound,  that  for  certainty  of  destruction,  could  be  likened 
to  nothing  but  the  fatal  spring  with  which  the  young  and  infuriated  tiger 
fastens  on  its  prey,  brought  JMoriarty  to  the  side  of  the  defenceless  gentleman. 
With  both  hands  he  grasped  his  throat,  and  so  appalled  were  even  Mr.  John- 
son's own  partisans,  by  the  suddenness  and  violence  of  the  action,  that  his 
death  would  have  been  certain,  had  not  Mabel  O'Neil,  with  a  strong  and 
desperate  effort,  staggered  forward,  seized  her  son's  arm,  dragged  him  with  her 
almost  to  the  marble  floor,  on  which  she  fell,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  but 
audible  voice,  "  Morty,  Morty,  as  you  value  yer  mother's  last  blessing — as  you 
fear  yer  mother's  dying  curse, — loose,  loose  yer  hould,  I  say  ! — it  is  yer  father 
ye  would  murther!" 

He  did,  indeed,  relax  his  grasp,  and  the  swollen  and  discoloured  features 
of  the  unfortunate  Johnson  plainly  showed  that,  in  a  few  seconds,  Moriarty's 
forbearance  would  have  been  too  late.  He  would  have  fallen,  had  not  his 
daughter,  attracted  to  the  hall  by  the  crowd  and  struggle,  caught  him  in  her 
arms,  and,  with  Kathleen's  aid,  supported  him  to  a  seat.  If  a  bullet  had 
passed  through  the  young  man's  brain,  he  could  not  have  appeared  more  sub- 
dued ; — the  fires  of  his  eye  were  quenched,  his  arms  hung  powerless  in  their 
sockets,  and  he  sank  with  a  deep-drawn  groan,  on  his  knees  by  his  mother's 
side.  "  Morty,"  she  said,  still  more  faintly,  "  ye  had  no  right  to  have  any 
hand  in  sich  a  burning  as  was  intended — Hould  ye  so,  but  ye  wouldn't  heed 
me ;  my  heart  warmed  to  the  ould  place,  as  the  limb  of  ivy  that  the  light- 
ning blasted  on  its  walls,  still  clings  to  the  same  spot ;  moreover,  I  couldn't 

bear  ye  to  lift  a  finger  against  him,  who,  perjured  as  he  is,  is  still  yer " 

father,  she  would  have  added,  but  her  son's  feelings  burst  forth.  "  Do  not  say 
the  black  word  again,  mother,"  he  exclaimed  furiously ;  "  if  /  am  his  son,  what 
must  you  be  ?" 

"  Listen,  James  Johnson,  to  that !"  said  the  wretched  woman,  dragging  her 
body — as  a  wounded  serpent  trails  its  envenomed  length  along  the  earth  — 
towards  the  magistrate's  seat ;  "  didn't  the  sound  o'  that  go  to  yer  heart  ? — the 
upbraidings  of  a  child  to  its  own  parent,  when  that  parent  is  in  the  agonies  o' 
death !  But  though  ye  've  murdered  me,  the  curse  is  over  ye  still !"  she  con- 
tinued, the  bitter  expression  of  countenance  I  have  before  mentioned  returning 
tenfold,  and  revenge  lighting  in  her  sunken  eye,  like  the  red  lamp  within  the 
sepulchre :  "  do  ye  remember  it  1  I  '11  tell  it  ye  again — the  whole — there 's  life 
in  me  yet  for  the  whole  of  it.  In  those  days  this  was  yer  employer's  house, 
but  ye  earned  his  gould,  and  then  he  borrowed  it,  and  ye  lent  him  back  his 
40 


314  MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE. 

own — ye  may  well  turn  pale,  it 's  all  true.  I  was  his  lady's  chosen  favourite — 
she  tendered  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  noble  child ;  you  won  me  to  your  purposes 
— you  got  me  to  betray  trust ;  and,  when  that  was  done,  you  turned  upon  me 
— you  poisoned  her  heart  agin'  me.  In  an  hour  of  madness  I  tould  o'  your 
wickedness — I  was  asked  for  proofs — I  had  none — she  turned  me  out — the 
snow  fell — the  rain  poured — I  deserved  it  all  from  her.  But,  under  the  end 
•wall,  where  the  ivy  is  still  green,  and  yer  daughter  tends  her  flowers — do  ye 
mind  that  meeting,  when  the  boy  that  scorns  to  own  ye  leaped  within  me — 
when  the  feelings  of  a  young  mother  warmed-  about  my  heart  ?  Ye  met  me 
there — there  ye  spurned  and  scorned  me;  and,  to  save  myself  from  everlasting 
blight — to  save  my  mother's  heart  from  breaking,  I  there  promised  that  as  a 
screen  to  my  sin,  I  would  marry  him  who  since  turned  a  shame  to  earth,  and 
•whose  children  were  born  both  to  that  and  sorrow.  Still  they  were  my  chil- 
dren, and  God  in  heaven  knows  what  I  've  suffered  for  them.  Then — then,  when 
I  clung  to  your  knees  to  bid  ye  farewell,  and  when,  like  a  true  woman,  I  could 
ha'  blessed  ye,  even  in  my  misery — for  the  thought  of  yer  happiness  was  ever 
foremost  in  my  mind — at  that  moment,  ye  threw  me  from  ye — ye  called  me  by 
the  name  that  rings  on  woman's  ear  to  everlastin'  when  she  deserves  it ;  then 
on  the  snow  I  knelt — I  cursed  ye  from  my  heart's  core — my  love  turned  to 
poison,  both  for  you  and  myself.  I  knew  the  people  would  call  ye  fortunate ; 
and  I  prayed  that  the  riches  ye  should  get,  might  secure  to  yer  soul  damnation 
— that,  the  higher  ye  rose,  the  more  should  the  finger  o'  scorn  point  at  ye — 
that  ye  might  be  the  father  o'  many  honest  childer,  and  that,  when  they  were 
most  bright  and  beautiful,  ye  might  follow  them  to  their  graves,  and  die  a 
childless  man !  And  didn't  I" — as  she  spoke,  the  fiend  seemed  to  take  posses- 
sion of  her  once  fine  form,  and  deep  and  terrible  shadows  gathered  over  her 
discoloured  brow — "  didn't  I  travel,  unknownst,  many  a  weary  mile,  to  hear 
the  stones  clatter  on  their  coffin-lids?  And  when  your  innocent  son  was  mur- 
thered  from  spite  to  his  father,  weren't  the  tears  that  rolled  down  yer  cheeks 
like  hail-drops,  refreshing  to  me  as  the  May-dew  that  falls  on  the  summer 
flower? — and  sure,  the  young  craythur  that's  trembling  there,  like  the  blasted 

meadow-sweet,  is  dying  fast,  fast — and  so  am  I "     Her  voice  sank,  and  the 

last  words  were  faint  and  murmuring,  as  the  breath  of  a  fierce  but  expiring 
hurricane. 

"Blessed  Mary!"  exclaimed  Kathleen,  "will  nobody  run  for  Father  Delany 
that  he  may  make  her  soul  ?"— and  the  kind-hearted  girl  knelt  at  her  side,  and 
held  the  crucifix  to  her  separated  and  ghastly  lips.  Moriarty,  whose  bitter 
feelings  could  find  no  utterance,  clasped  his  hands  in  agony  to  implore  her  bless- 
ing. Feebly  she  muttered — they  knew  not  what ;  then,  turning  her  face  to  the 
ground,  and,  while  literally  biting  the  dust,  her  erring  but  powerful  spirit 
departed  from  its  dwelling  of  sin  and  suffering. 

It  might  be  some  five  or  six  years  after  this  real  and  frightful  tragedy,  that, 
in  a  cottage  more  comfortable  than  Irish  cottages  are  in  general,  an  interesting 


MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE.  315 

peasant  group  were  assembled  round  a  clear  turf  fire.  A  young  and  comely 
matron  was  occupied  in  undressing  a  fine  and  beautiful  boy,  while  her  husband 
amused  himself  in  deciphering  the  contents  of  a  somewhat  ancient  newspaper ; 
the  wife  glanced  from  the  babe  to  her  husband,  with  that  sweet  expression  of 
proud  and  satisfied  affection  that  can  only  rest  on  the  countenance  of  a  happy 
married  woman,  when  she  gazes  on  earth's  greatest  blessings — an  affectionate 
husband,  and  a  blooming  child.  Smilingly  she  pushed  back  the  little  round 
curls  that  were  just  beginning  to  cluster  on  her  son's  fair  brow ;  and,  again 
looking  at  her  husband,  observed,  "  Phil,  honey,  the  boy  grows  mighty  like  you, 
I'm  thinking — he's  yer  very  moral  just  about  the  eyes;  there,  he  wants  to 
kiss  his  own  daddy  before  he  goes  to  sleep!  Philip,  what  ails  ye,  that  ye  don't 
notice  the  child? — ain't  ye  well,  astore?"  Philip  Murphy  deliberately  laid 
down  the  paper,  took  the  cherub-boy  in  his  arms,  hid  his  face  on  its  little 
bosom ;  and  while,  with  the  sweet  untutored  affection  of  infancy,  the  babe 
played  with  the  longer  and  deeper  curls  of  his  father's  hair,  he  murmured  so 
earnest,  and  even  eloquent  a  prayer,  that  God  would  preserve  it  from  sin  and 
shame,  that  the  mother's  heart  overflowed,  and  tears  of  tenderness  rolled  down 
her  cheeks.  As  she  took  the  delighted  boy  from  his  father's  arms,  she  could 
not  help  saying,  "  That  was  a  mighty  fine  prayer,  Phil,  and  all  out  o'  yer  own 
head,  I  'm  sure,  for  neither  priest  nor  minister  could  make  it  for  ye — clean  up 
from  the  heart  like  that ;  it 's  a  murdering  pity,  Phil,  ye  warn't  a  priest,  for  the 
sarmints  would  ha'  come  quite  natural  to  ye." 

"  Then  you  should  have  been  a  nun,  Kate,"  replied  the  husband  smilingly,  yet 
not  as  cheerfully  as  was  his  wont ;  "  and  that  wouldn't  have  been  much  to  yer 
taste,  would  it,  now  ?" 

"  I  never  thought  o'  that,"  said  she,  laughing. 

"  Then  ye  're  not  so  quick-witted  as  ye  were  the  night  ye  locked  me  up  in 
the  long  barn,  ye  mind." 

"  Philip,  agra  !"  replied  she,  seriously,  "  I  never  can  abide  the  thoughts  o'  that 
night." 

"  Nor  I,  neither,"  sighed  Philip,  "  only  something  I  've  just  read  on  the  paper 
makes  me  think  of  it." 

"  And  what  would  be  on  the  paper,  Phil  1"  inquired  Kathleen,  anxiously ;  at 
the  same  time  rocking  herself  backwards  and  forwards,  to  "  hushow"  the  baby 
to  sleep. 

"  Two  things  very  queer  to  come  together  then,  Kate ;  the  death  of  that  bad 
man,  Mr.  Johnson — a  dale  about  him  that 's  not  thrue — and " 

"  Not  thrue  !"  repeated  Kathleen  ;  "  sure  I  thought  whatever  was  on  a  news- 
paper was  as  thrue  as  gospel !" 

"  Small  is  yer  knowledge,  then,  my  darlint,  and  so  best — I  hate  a  knowing 
woman  ;  but  I  tell  ye — and  I  hard  it  from  one  who  understands  it  right  well — 
that  the  half  and  more  o'  the  papers  are  made  up  o'  big  lies ;  and  sure  here  's 
a  proof  of  it — when  he  that  was  forced  to  fly  the  country  (for  ye  know,  after  the 


316 

ripping  up  Mabel  O'Neil,  as  they  called  her,  made  afore  us  all,  and,  more  espe- 
cially, after  the  death  o'  that  sweet  angel  daughter,  Miss  Car'line,  he  couldn't 
stand  it  at  all,  at  all),  is  praised  up  in  black  and  white,  as  « a  zealous,' — that 
means  useful,  you  understand — '  a  zealous  and  good  magistrate.'  "  Poor  Kath- 
leen threw  up  her  eyes  in  silent  astonishment. 

"  The  begrudged  thing  never  does  good,"  she  said  at  last ;  "  and  what 
comes  over  the  devil's  back "  "  True  for  ye,  Kate,"  exclaimed  the  hus- 
band, who  knew  the  proverb  well,  and,  therefore,  I  suppose,  did  not  permit  his 
wife  to  finish  it;  "but  the  other  thing  is,  that  Sergeant  Smith,  ye  mind,  who 
would  have  been  hung  for  shooting  that  unfortunate  woman,  only  for  the 
power  o'  the  party,  and  the  bribery  o'  Mr.  Johnson  (who  certainly  had  good 
right  to  get  him  off,  seeing  he  instigated  him  to  do  it — though  every  one  clears 
him  of  knowing,  at  the  time,  who  Mabel  was),  was  hung  at  Kilmainim,  for 
murderin'  some  man  or  other  out  in  the  main  ocean — so  there 's  an  end  to  him, 
any  way." 

"  The  Lord  preserve  us  all,  and  keep  us  just  and  honest !"  ejaculated 
Kathleen,  crossing  herself  with  one  hand,  and  pressing  her  child  more  closely 
to  her  bosom  with  the  other;  adding,  after  a  pause,  "I  often  heard  that 
'Squire  Johnson  ought  to  have  committed  Morty  to  prison,  though  he  was  his 
son,  as  he  was  took  under  arms;  that  might  be  law,  but  there  wouldn't  be 
much  natur'  in  it." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  was  settled,"  answered  the  husband  :  "  sure  the  justices 
manage  the  law,  and  not  the  law  the  justices  ;  only  Morty  went  clean  off  out  o' 
the  country,  and  I  was  glad  of  it ;  it  was  the  only  chance  he  had — for  he  had 
some  good  in  him,  I  've  heard ;  and  though  the  black  drop  couldn't  but  run  in 
his  veins,  yet  trouble  and  knowledge  might  get  it  out,  ye  know." 

"  Phil,  I  want  to  ask  ye,"  observed  Kathleen,  after  a  pause,  "  as  ye  're  a 
knowing  man,  if  ye  really  think  it  was  Mabel's  curse  that  brought  all  the  misery 
on  the  'Squire's  family  ?" 

"  A  curse  is  a  bad  thing,  Kate,  more  particklar  when  it 's  desarved ;  but  I 
have  heard  that  a  curse  made  again'  the  innocent  is  turned,  by  the  breath  of 
heaven,  again'  one's  self;  however,  it's  ill  mindin'  sich  things,  only  to  keep 
one's  own  heart  pure ;  her  curse  came  there,  for  a  sartinty,  and  it 's  almost  a 
by-word  now — '  As  bitter  as  Mabel  O'Neil's  curse.'  Riches  were  a  curse  to 
him ;  the  higher  he  got,  the  more  was  the  finger  o'  scorn  pointed  at  him,  for  he 
hadn't  the  gentlemanly  turn  about  him ;  and,  though  the  father  o'  many  childer, 
he  died  childless.  Temptation  is  bad,  so  God  keep  us  from  it,  or  teach  us  how 
to  overcome  it.  Howsom'ever,  all  he  got  is  gone  to  the  bad,  long  ago — the  devil 
never  grants  long  leases." 

"  Poor  Miss  Car'line !"  ejaculated  Kathleen,  "  she  never  rightly  recovered 
that  day — though,  to  be  sure,  it  was  a  blessed  thing  that  the  son  was  saved  from 
the  sin  o'  the  father's  blood ;  the  flowers  I  planted  over  her  grave  last  May  are 
in  blossom  again,  and  it  crushes  my  heart  to  look  at  them,  for  she  was  a  raal 


MABEL  O'NEIL'S  CURSE. 


317 


gentlewoman,  one  o'  God's  own  makin',  jist  let  down  from  the  holy  heavens,  to 
show  us  what  angels  are ;  the  delight  of  my  heart  you  war'  Miss,  avourneen ! 
only,  I  often  think,  too  sweet  and  gentle  for  this  world's  ways.  I  'd  ha'  gone  to 

death  for  you,  willingly,  any  day " 

"  There,  darlint,"  said  Philip,  anxious  to  terminate  so  painful  a  reminiscence, 
"  put  the  boy  to  bed,  and,  as  it 's  fine  moonlight,  we'll  take  a  walk  over  the  field, 
to  see  yer  father."  Kathleen  passed  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  and  prepared  to 
fulfil  her  husband's  wishes  (which,  by  some  strange  sympathy,  were  generally 
her  own),  while  he  continued,  "  the  poor  man's  getting  ould  now,  darlint,  yet 
there 's  none  of  his  childer  gladdens  his  heart  like  you ;  and,  after  all,  the  best 
way  to  keep  off  a  curse  is  not  to  desarve  it." 


KELLY  THE  PIPER. 


UDY — Judy  Kelly — Judy!  —  will  ye  give  us  no 
breakfast  to-day  —  and  the  sun  splitting  the  trees 
these  two  hours  ? — and  the  pig  itself — the  cratur — 
skreetching  alive  wid  the  hunger  ?" 

"  Och,  it 's  true  for  ye,  Mick,  honey  ! — true  for 
ye — and  the  pratees  are  almost  done  —  and  yon's 
Ellen.  She  carries  the  pitcher  so  lightly,  that  it 's 
little  milk  she 's  got  from  the  big  house,  this  fine 
harvest  morning." 

And  Mistress  Kelly  "  hourisht"  the  pig  out  of  the 
cabin — placed  three  noggins  on  an  old  table  that 
she  pulled  from  a  dark  corner  (there  was  but  one 
window  in  the  room,  and  that  was  stuffed  with  the 
Piper's  coat,  in  lieu  of  glass),  wiped  the  aforesaid 
table  with  the  corner  of  her  "  nraskeen,"  and,  from 
another  corner,  lifted  the  kish,  *t  served  to  wash, 

(318; 


KELLY    THE   PIPER.  319 

strain  and  "  dish"  the  potatoes,  feed  the  pig,  or  rock  the  child,  as  occasion 
might  require. 

Judy  Kelly  was  certainly  one  of  the  worst  specimens  of  an  Irish  woman  I 
had  ever  the  duty  of  inspecting.  She  never  washed  her  face  except  on 
Sundays ;  and  then  it  always  gave  her  so  bad  a  cold  in  her  head— on  account 
(to  use  her  own  words)  "  of  the  tinderness  of  her  skin" — that  she  was  obliged 
to  cure  it  with  liberal  draughts  of  whiskey — the  effects  of  which  rendered  Judy 
(at  other  times  a  peaceable  woman)  the  veriest  scold  in  Bannow.  Poor  Kelly 
always  anticipated  this  storm,  and  on  Sunday  evening  mounted  his  miserable 
donkey — miscalled  Dumpling  (a  name,  however,  which  might  have  been  appro- 
priated before  he  took  service  with  his  present  master),  and,  with  pipes  under 
arm,  posted  to  St.  Patrick — the  most  respectable  "  shebeen-shop"  on  the  moor — 
and  finished  the  night ;  sometimes  with  a  comfortable  nap  by  the  road-side,  or 
on  a  sand-bank.  The  most  delightful  sleep  he  ever  had  was  one  night,  when 
Dumpling,  being,  I  suppose,  tipsy,  like  her  master,  fell,  ascending  a  nice,  muddy 
hill,  and,  unable  to  rise,  remained  on  her  knees,  until  Pat  Furlong  discovered 
them  both,  early  oneJVIonday  morning;  Kelly  loudly  snoring,  the  glorious  sun 
casting  a  flood  of  light  over  a  visage  thin,  yellow,  and  ghastly — except  a  long, 
pointed,  crimson  nose,  with  a  peculiar  twist  at  the  end,  which  assumed  a  richer 
colouring,  shading  to  the  very  tip  in  deep  and  glowing  purple ;  the  bagpipes  still 
tightly  grasped  under  the  "  professor's"  arm. 

The  family  of  this  village  musician  was  managed  like  many  Irish  families — 
that  is,  was.not  managed  at  all;  indeed  the  habits  of  the  parents  precluded  even 
the  possibility  of  the  children's  improvement  in  any  way  ;  they  moved  about,  a 
miscellaneous  mass  of  brown-red  flesh,  white  teeth,  bushy  elf-locks,  which  rarely 
submitted  to  the  discipline  of  a  comb  and  party-coloured  rags ;  yet  were,  never- 
theless, cheerful,  strong,  and  healthy.  Clooney  evinced  much  musical  talent, 
which  served  as  an  excuse  for  idleness,  uniform  and  premeditated.  Molly 
was  the  best  jigger  for  ten  miles  round ;  and  Ellen  would  have  been  a 
pretty,  roley-poley,  industrious  gipsy,  if  she  had  not  been  born  to  the  lazy  in- 
heritance of  the  Kelly  household  ;  as  it  was,  she  did  more  than  all  the  brats 
put  together;  and,  as  her  little  bare  feet  puddled  through,  the  extraordinary 
black  mud,  which  formed  a  standing  pool  around  the  stately  dunghill  that 
graced  the  door,  she  was  welcomed  by  her  father's  salutation — "  The  top  o'  the 
morning  to  my  colleen ! — little  to  fill  the  noggins  ye  've  got  wid  ye ;  well, 
niver  mind,  clane  water 's  wholesome,  and  lighter  for  the  stomach,  may-be,  nor 
milk ;  any  way,  the  pratees  are  laughing,  and  I  must  make  haste  for  once : 
where's  Molly  ?" 

"  She's  just  slept  out  to  look  after  her  pumps,  for  the  pathern  ;  but  niver  heed, 
we  '11  not  wait,"  replied  Mr?.  Kelly,  pouring  the  potatoes  into  the  kish. 

"  It 's  little  use,  thin,  mother  honey,  ther  '11  be  for  pumps,  or  pipes,  or  shil- 
lalahs,  this  harvest ;  for  there 's  black  news  for  the  boys  and  girls,  and  it 's  my- 
self was  sorry  to  hear  it ; — there  's  to  be  no  pathern." 

"  No  pathern !"  screamed  Mrs.  Kelly,  letting  half  the  potatoes  fall  on  the 


320  KELLEY   THE   PIPER. 

floor,  to  the  advantage  of  the  pig,  who  entered  at  the  lucky  moment,  and  made 
good  use  of  his  time ;  while  Kelly  stood  with  open  mouth,  ready  to  receive 
the  one  he  had  dexterously  peeled  with  his  thumb-nail ; — poor  man,  he  was 
petrified;  the  pattern,  where,  man  and  boy,  he  had  played,  drank,  and 
quarrelled,  in  St.  Mary's  honour,  for  thirty  years;  the  pattern,  with  its  line 
of  "  tints,"  covered  with  blankets,  quilts,  and  quilted  petticoats,  its  stalls  glitter- 
ing with  gingerbread  husbands  and  wives  for  half  the  country ;  the  pattern, 
where  his  seat,  a  whiskey-barrel,  was  placed  under  a  noble  elm,  in  the  middle 
of  the  firm  greensward,  where  the  belles  and  beaux  of  the  neighbouring  hills 
had  footed  gaily,  if  not  gracefully,  to  "  Moll  Row,"  "  Darby  Kelly,"  or  «« St. 
Patrick's  Day,"  until  the  morning  peeped  on  their  re  veilings,  for  more  than  a 
double  century  ! 

"It's  impossible,  ye  little,  lying  hussy! — who  dare  stop  the  pathern? — the 
pathern,  is  it,  in  honour  of  the  holy  Vargin;  for  what  'ud  they  stop  it? — 
there  niver  was  even  a  bit  of  a  ruction  at  the  pathern  o'  Bannow,  since  the 
world  was  a  world ;  ye  wicked  limb,  tell  me  this  moment  who  tould  ye 
this  news  ?" 

Ellen  looked  at  her  father,  and,  knowing  it  was  a  word  and  a  blow  with 
him  when  he  was  in  a  passion,  meekly  replied — that  Pat  Kenessy,  the  land- 
lord of  "  St.  Patrick,"  had  been  turned  off  the  pattern  field,  when  in  the  act 
of  striking  the  tent  poles,  to  be  ready  for  the  next  day,  by  Mister  Lamb,  the 
'Squire's  Scotch  steward ;  and  that  Mister  Lamb  had  informed  Kenessy  that 
his  master  would  not  permit  any  pattern  to  be  held  on  his  estate,  as  it  only 
drew  together  a  parcel  of  vagabonds,  occasioned  idleness  and  quarrels  among 
men  and  women,  and  flirtation  and  courtship  among  girls  and  boys ;  and  that 
a  constable  was  waiting  to  take  the  first  man  to  Wexford  jail  who  pitched 
a  tent 

Poor  Kelly  ! — at  first  he  would  not  believe  it :  but  some  of  the  neighbours 
confirmed  the  information,  and  soon  a  council  assembled  in  his  cabin,  to  con- 
sider what  measures  ought  to  be  adopted :  the  peasantry  could  not  bear  to  give 
up  quietly  the  only  amusement  they  enjoyed  during  the  year. 

"  That 's  what  comes  o'  the  'Squire's  living  so  long  in  England,"  said  Blind 
Barry ;  "  I  thought  little  good  it  would  end  in,  when  he  said,  t  'other  day,  that 
my  cabin,  must  be  whitewashed  every  six  months." 

"  He  threatened  to  turn  my  dunghill  into  the  ditch,"  cried  the  wrathful  Piper 
— "  but  if  he  dares  to  lay  his  finger  on  it — " 

"  Don't  fear,"  said  Mickey  the  tailor,  who  possessed  great  reputation,  both  as 
a  wit  and  a  sage,  and  who  did  not  enter  regularly  into  the  conference,  but 
stood  leaning  against  the  door-post — "  don't  fear ;  great  men  don't  like  to  dirty 
their  fingers  with  trifles." 

"  It 's  long  afore  his  uncle  would  have  done  so ;  but  the  good  ould  times  is 
past,  and  there's  no  frinds  for  poor  Ireland  now,"  sighed  Paddy  Lumley,  an 
old,  white-headed  man,  more  than  eighty  years  of  age. 

"It's  hard,  very  hard  though,"  continued  Kellv;  "he  knows  well  enough 


KELLY    THE   PIPER.  321 

that  the  trifle  I  gets  at  the  pathern  for  my  bits  o'  music,  is  all  I  have  in  the 
wide  world  to  depind  on  for  the  rint ;  and  sure  it's  little  I  picks  up  the 
country  round  to  keep  the  skreeds  on  the  woman  and  childer — God  help  thitn  ! 
—  to  say  nothin  o'  the  atin'  and  drinkin' ;  but  niver  mind ;  if  there's  no 
pathern,  my  curse  be  upon  him  and  his!  —  may  the  grass,  and  the  nettle,  and 
the "  " 

"  Asy,  asy,  Kelly  !"  cried  the  tailor — "  asy,  take  it  asy ;  can't  ye  think — 
never  despair,  says  I ;  and  so  I  said  to  Jim  Holloway,  whin  his  wife  died ;  never 
despair,  says  I ;  he  took  my  advice,  and  married  agin  in  three  weeks.  Why 
won't  one  field  do  ye  instead  of  another  ?  Can't  ye  borrow  another  place  for 
the  day,  man  alive  I" 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  such  gumshogue  ?"  cried  Blind  Barry — "  who  'd  gainsay 
the  'Squire,  d'ye  think  ?  Which  of  his  tinants  would  say  ay  to  his  nay,  and 
have  a  turn-out,  or  a  double  rint,  for  their  punishment  ?" 

"  Barry,  will  you  whisht !  Listen  to  me,  Kelly,  and  we  '11  have  the  pathern 
yet.  Clane  yerself,  and  go  up  to  the  big  house  to  Mister  Herriott ;  he's  an  ould 
residenter,  and  has  a  heart  to  feel  for,  and  a  hand  to  relieve,  the  poor  man's 
sorrow  ;  let  him  know  the  rights  of  it,  and  I  '11  go  bail,  he  '11  lend  you  some  field 
of  his  own.  And  as  to  the  'Squire,  you  know  he  does  not  care  a  brass  farthin* 
for  him,  on  account  of  the  half-acre  field  they  two  went  to  law  about ;  I  hear 
say  it  cost  them,  one  wray  or  't  other,  a  clear  seven  hundred ;  and  the  field  itself 
not  worth  a  traneen  ;  but  that 's  neither  here  nor  there." 

"  Mick,"  said  Kelly,  "  you  have  it ! — by  the  powers,  I  '11  go  off  straight :  to 
be  sure,  if  we  have  a  pathern,  it 's  little  matter  where,  excipt  that  it 's  pleasure 
for  the  girls  to  dance  on  the  same  sod  their  mothers  danced  on  afore  them ;  but 
nivir  mind — won't  some  of  ye  come  to  back  me  ?'' 

"  No  occasion  in  life  for  that ;  but  we  '11  go  wid  ye  to  the  gate,  and  hear  the 
luck  when  ye  come  out." 

Kelly  was  soon  ready,  and  set  off  on  the  embassy  in  high  spirits ;  as  they 
journeyed,  they  talked  over  the  matter  more  at  length,  suggested  a  variety  of 
fields  and  meadows,  and  told  the  story  to  all  they  met.  The  Irish,  careless  of 
their  time,  are  ever  ready  to  "  tell  or  hear  some  new  thing,"  and  Kelly's  train 
became  almost  a  troop,  before  it  arrived  at  the  hill  which  overlooked  Mr. 
Herriott's  small  but  beautiful  domain. 

It  was,  indeed,  very  beautiful :  the  old  mansion,  with  its  tall  white  chimneys, 
bursting  from  a  thick  grove  of  many  coloured  foliage  that,  early  in  August,  was 
deepening  into  the  brown  of  autumn ;  the  long  straight  line  of  trees  that 
marked  the  avenue,  and  the  bright,  blue  sea  in  the  distance,  reflecting  a  cloud- 
less sky ;  the  hill,  sloping  gradually  down  to  the  back  of  the  house,  which, 
though  not  exactly  a  common,  was  rendered  nearly  so  by  the  kindness  of 
its  possessor,  who  gave  grass  to  half  the  lazy  cows  and  troublesome  pigs  in 
the  parish. 

"  We  can  see  the  sign  of  the  Welsh  coast,  the  day  's  so  clear,"  said  Mick. 
41 


322 


KELLY    THE   PIPER. 


"  The  dickons  drive  it  back,  say  I ! — the  Welsh  and  English  are  all  foreigners 
alike ;  and  it 's  o'  them  all  the  bother  comes,"  retorted  Kelly. 

"  How  dark  the  mountain  of  Forth  looks  !  Do  you  remimber  once  when  it 
looked  bright,  Jim  ?"  said  Hurling  Jack  to  a  tall,  powerful  man,  who  strode  fore- 
most of  the  party. 

"  Do  I  not !  The  red-coats  were  in  the  hollow,  and  the  boys  on  the  hill ; 
they  covered  it  like  a  swarm  o'  bees.  Och  !  if  we  had  but  attacked  thim  as  I 
wanted,  not  a  mother's  son  would  have  lived  to  tell  the  story ;  but  they  got  to 
the  whiskey  and  the  pipes,  and  the  reinforcement  came  up,  and  it  was  all  over. 
Kelly,  I  remimber  you  were  blind  with  the  drink,  and  yet  ye  kept  on  playing 
for  the  dear  life — 

1  We  '11  down  wid  the  orange,  and  up  wid  the  green, 
Success  to  the  croppies  wherever  they  're  seen !'  " 

"  Whisht,  Jim,  whisht !"  cried  Kelly,  looking  about,  quite  frightened ;  "  how 
do  you  know  who's  listening  ? — and  as  I  'm  a  sinner  yon 's  the  master  down  in 
the  glin,  looking  as  mild  as  new  milk." 

"  How  can  ye  tell  how  he  looks,  and  his  back  to  ye,  ye  nataral  ?"  slyly  in- 
quired the  tailor ;  "  but  I  'm  sorry  he  is  there,  for  I  thought  we  might  have  taken 
the  short  cut  through  the  round  meadow." 

"We  may  do  that  still,"  replied  Kelly,  "for  his  honour's  too  much  the 
jentleman  to  look  back  whin  once  on  the  road ;  and  there 's  others  know  that 
as  well  as  me,  I  'm  thinking ;  for  I  see  Biddy  Golfer  turning  her  two-year- 
ould  calf  in,  through  the  gap;  well,  that  bates  all — and  she  only  a  Kerry 
woman !" 

Kelly  and  his  friends  were,  in  some  measure,  disappointed.  They  certainly 
took  the  short  cut,  and  his  honour  did  not  look  back,  but  he  did  as  bad  ;  he 
seated  himself  deliberately  on  the  wheel  of  a  car  that  was  turned  upside  down 
in  the  ditch-side,  and  answered  all  the  purposes  of  gate  and  turnstile ;  whistled 
two  rambling  spaniels  to  his  side,  to  share  the  caresses  so  liberally  bestowed  on 
Neptune,  a  huge  Newfoundland  dog,  who  disdained  frolic  and  fun  of  all 
description,  and  looked  up  in  Mr.  Herriott's  face,  with  an  owl-like  gravity, 
that  made  it  doubtful  whether  his  steadiness  proceeded  from  sagacity  or 
stupidity.  As  the  crowd  advanced,  he  drew  still  closer  to  his  master's  side, 
and  in  low,  sullen  growls  expressed  much  displeasure  at  so  ill-dressed  a  troop 
approaching  the  avenue. 

"  We  are  in  for  it,"  whispered  Kelly,  in  a  low  voice,  "  so  we  may  as  well  put 
a  bould  face  on  it  at  once  and  spake  all  together." 

In  another  moment  Mr.  Herriott  was  surrounded  by  the  bareheaded  com- 
pany ;  Kelly,  and  Mickey  the  tailor,  a  little  in  advance. 

"  Every  blessing  in  life  on  yer  honour ! — and  proud  are  we  all  to  see  yer 
honour  looking  so  fresh  and  bravely  this  fine  morning." 

"Kelly,  is  it  you? — and  Mick? — and — why,  what  earthly  business  brings 
such  a  gang  of  you  here  ?  Have  I  not  warned  you  over  and  over  again,  not 


KELLY   THE   PIPER.  323 

to  make  your  confounded  paths  across  the  clover  field  ?  And  I  see  half  the 
barley  is  destroyed  before  the  sickle  can  be  put  to  it,  from  your  everlasting 
trespasses." 

"  Is  it  ?  Oh,  then,  more 's  the  pity,  to  say  nothin  o'  the  shame  !"  exclaimed 
the  Piper,  looking  very  sorrowful :  "  but  we  had  no  intintion  in  life  to  tres- 
pass ;  only  we  saw  yer  honour  from  the  top  o'  the  hill,  and  as  we  had  a 
little  business  wid  yer  honour,  to  save  time,  and  not  to  trouble  ye  at  the  house, 
\ve  thought  it  best  to  take  to  the  path.  We  've  not  done  a  taste  of  harm,  yer 
honour." 

"  Well,  Kelly,  do  not  do  so  again ;  it  sets  a  bad  example,  and  destroys  the 
fields.  (Neptune,  down,  sir !)  But  what 's  your  business  ? — another  disagree- 
ment with  your  worthy  lady  1 — or  a  quarrel  ?— or  a " 

"  Nothin'  at  all,  at  all,  of  that  sort,  sir ;  it 's  far  worse  nor  that,  yer  honour, 
long  life  to  ye  !  It 's  all  o'  the  pathern  ;  a  burning  sin,  and  a  shame,  and  a  dis- 
grace to  the  whole  town  and  counthry ;  the  likes  of  it  was  niver  heard  since 
the  world  was  born !" 

"  Is  that  the  way  to  discoorse  a  jentleman  ?"  interrupted  Mick ;  "  how 
can  his  honour  understand  ye  1 — ye 're  for  all  the  world  like  a  born  nataral;" 
and  he  pushed  the  diminished  Piper  back,  and  advancing  one  foot  forward, 
commenced  his  oration,  at  the  same  time  rubbing  the  brim  of  his  hat  with 
much  dexterity — "  To-morrow,  as  is  well-known  to  yer  honour,  being  a  raale 
scholar,  and  a  born  jentleman — not  like  some  neighbours,  who  have  a  power 
o'  money  and  nothing  else — will  be  (crossing  himself)  the  blessed  day  of  our 
Lady,  and  always  the  pathern  day  of  the  parishes  of  Kilkaven  and  Bannow. 
Now,  yer  honour  minds  the  little  square  field  at  the  foot  o'  the  hill — always,  in 
the  memory  o'  man  called  the  pathern  field ;  well,  it  has  plased  t'other  'Squire 
— not  that  Pd  iver  think  of  turning  my  tongue  aginst  the  gintry,  the  raale 
gintry,  yer  honour  (bowing  low  to  Mr.  Herriott) — has  thought  fit  to  forbid  the 
pathern,  and  to  threaten  to  sind  the  first  man  caught  pitching  a  tint-pole  on  his 
land,  by  a  constable,  to  Wexford  jail." 

Mr.  Herriott  possessed  a  kind  and  benevolent  temper,  he  loved  to  see  the 
peasantry  happy  in  their  own  way,  and  spent  his  fortune  on  his  estate,  anxious, 
both  by  precept  and  example,  to  instruct  and  serve  his  tenantry ;  but  he  had  a 
decided,  old-fashioned,  Irish  hatred  of  jails,  constables,  lawyers,  soldiers,  &c. ; 
and  often,  did  he  glory  in  the  fact,  that  neither  soldier,  constable,  lawyer, 
physician,  nor  water-guard,  were  within  twelve  miles  of  his  mansion.  "  The 
rich  'Squire,"  as  he  was  called,  was  a  very  good  man  as  limes  went,  but  so  fond 
of  carrying  everything  with  a  high  hand,  that  the  benefits  he  conferred  on  the 
poor  (and  they  were  many)  were  seldom  received  with  gratitude,  because  he 
made  little  allowance  for  the  customs  or  foibles  of  those  among  whom  he  dwelt. 
Moreover,  he  loved  soldiers,  talked  of  establishing  a  land  and  water-guard,  and 
a  dispensary  in  the  parish ;  all  good  things,  but  yet  decidedly  opposed  to  the 
views  of  his  more  gentle  and  amiable  neighbour. 

•**  Indeed !  a  constable !" 


324  KELLY    THE    PIPER. 

"  Ay,  yer  honour,  to  a  paceable  parish." 

"  You  have  been,  and  are,  a  peaceable  set  of  men,  considering  you  are 
Irish,"  added  Mr.  Herriott,  smiling;  "  and  certainly  I  believe  no  one  here  had 
anything  to  do  With  that  unfortunate  riot  at  Duncormuck,  where  poor  Murtough 
was  killed." 

"  No,  no,  yer  honour,"  they  loudly  and  unitedly  replied ;  one,  in  a  low  voice, 
added,  "  He  was  only  a  Connaught  man,  after  all !" 

"  I  should  be  sorry,  indeed,  if  the  Bannow  boys  wanted  either  soldiers  or  con- 
stables to  keep  them  in  order ;  but  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  interfere.  I  cannot 
oblige  Mr.  Desmond  to  lend  you  the  field." 

"  No ;  but  your  honour  could  give  us  the  loan  of  one  of  yer  own  to  keep  our 
pathern  in :  and  long  may  yer  honour  reign  over  us." 

"  Amin  !"  said  Kelly. 

"  One  of  my  own  ?  I  do  not  think  I  could  do  that,"  replied  Mr.  Herriott ; 
"  the  fields  that  join  the  road  are  surrounded  by  a  bounds-ditch,  and  young 
plantations ;  and  as  to  those  in  the  centre  of  the  domain — impossible,  quite." 

"  No  harm  would  happen  to  the  trees,"  replied  Kelly,  "  but  it  would  be  very 
inconvanient,  no  doubt.  So  I  was  just  thinking,  if  yer  honour  would  have  no 
objection,  the  place  forenent  the  grate  gate  would  be  quite  the  thing ;  and  I  '11 
go  bail  that  they  '11  all  walk  as  if 't  was  on  eggs  they  were  threading,  and  neither 
gate  nor  green  will  resave  the  laste  damage  in  life." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mr.  Herriott,  "  remember,  you  are  security  for  the  good 
conduct  of  your  friends." 

"  Oh  !  every  blissing  atttnd  yer  honour,  and  the  mistress,  and  all  the  good 
family! — hurrah,  boys!  we've  gained  the  day,"  cried  the  triumphant  Piper, 
capering  about  and  snapping  his  finders  ;  "  we  '11  jig  it,  and  paceably  too ;  no 
quieter  lads  in  the  counthry ;  if  that  ould  scoundrel,  Tim  McShane,  and  his 
fiddle  comes  within  a  mile  o'  me,  by  the  powers  I  '11 " 

"  Stop,  stop,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Herriott,  "  peace ;  no  disturbance ; 
the  slightest  fray,  and  depend  upon  it,  I  will  set  my  face  against  fairs  and  pat- 
terns for  the  next  ten  years." 

"  Oh  !  God  bless  yer  honour  !  I  '11  take  an  oath  aginst  fighting  and  whiskey, 
if  yer  honour  wishes,  with  heart's  delight." 

"  Never  mind ;  if  you  swore  against  it  in  one  parish  you  would  take  it  in 
another ;  that  would  be  pretty  much  the  same  thing,  I  fancy ;  there,  go  the 
road  way,  and  now  no  more  talk  this  morning,"  continued  the  kind  man,  as  he 
rose  from  his  seat;  "I  will  walk  up  with  the  ladies,  and  see  that  you  are  all 
quiet  and  steady,  to-morrow  evening." 

"  Long  life's,"  "  powers  o'  blessings,"  "  stores  o'  good  luck,"  were  bestowed 
upon  "  him  and  his,"  and  the  parties  pursued  their  separate  paths. 

"  The  great  gate"  terminated  the  long  straight  avenue  before  mentioned, 
where,  sheltered  by  some  five  or  six  noble  beech  and  horse-chesnut  trees,  and 
peeping  from  amidst  a  profusion  of  sweet-brier  and  wild  roses,  stood  a  little 


KELLY    THE   PIPER.  325 

lodge,  meek  and  lowly  as  a  hedge  primrose,  with  two  lattice  windows,  and  a 
slated  roof — that  unusual  covering  of  Irish  houses. 

The  interior  of  this  pretty  cot  was  more  interesting  even  than  its  outward 
seeming ;  within,  sat  an  old  female  spinning,  her  white  hair  turned  up  in  front, 
a  clean  kerchief  pinned  over  her  cap,  and  knotted  under  her  chin,  and  a  short 
red  cloak,  fastened  by  a  broad  black  riband  ;  her  face  was  slightly  wrinkled, 
perhaps  by  age,  perhaps  by  sorrow.  When  erect,  her  figure  must  have  beet? 
tall  and  imposing ;  and  long,  bony  fingers,  and  sinewy  arms,  told  of  strength 
and  exertion.  At  her  feet  was  sitting,  on  what  the  Irish  peasantry  call  a 
"  boss,"  a  very  slight  girl,  with  a  quantity  of  light  hair,  shading  a  face  of  almost 
unearthly  paleness ;  she  was  carding  flax,  and  laying  it,  in  flakes,  on  a  clean 
table  at  her  side.  The  maiden,  as  she  conversed  with  the  aged  crone,  raised 
her  large  blue  eyes  to  her  withered  face,  and  gazed  on  it  with  as  much  affection 
as  if  it  possessed  the  most  fascinating  beauty ;  while  the  woman's  harsh  voice 
softened  when  she  spoke  to  a  being  evidently  so  dear  to  the  best  feelings  of  her 
heart 

"  Oh,  blessed  be  the  day,  or  rather  the  night,  whin  I  saw  ye  first,  mavour- 
neen ! — for  you  are  the  blessin'  o'  my  life,  and  what  was  sorrow  to  you,  was 
joy  to  me." 

"  Joy  to  me,  nurse,  not  sorrow ;  for,  if  I  lost  one  parent,  I  found  another  in 
you." 

"  A  poor  parint,  my  darlint  May,  but  a  fond ; — however,  God's  will  be  done ; 
ould  Nelly  Clarey's  heart  is  not  could  yet." 

Old  Nelly  Clarey,  in  her  early  days,  had  been  a  bathing  woman,  and 
accustomed  to  the  sea  from  infancy,  had  become  almost  amphibious ;  her  fear- 
less disposition  induced  the  ladies  who  visited  the  beautiful  banks  of  Bannow, 
in  summer,  to  rely  solely  on  her  guidance ;  and,  moreover,  she  could  row  a  boat 
as  well  as  any  man  in  the  country.  There  are  a  pair  of  green  islands,  about 
three  miles  from  the  borough  of  Ballytigue,  called  the  "  Keeroes,"  where,  in 
summer,  a  few  starved  sheep,  or  one  or  two  goats,  wander  over  about  an  acre 
of  moss  and  weeds.  In  spring-tides  and  stormy  weather  these  rocks  are  very 
dangerous  to  vessels  whose  pilots  are  not  fully  acquainted  with  the  channel ; 
and  a  winter  seldom  passed  without  some  shipwreck  occurring  either  on  or 
near  them.  A  dark,  squally  morning  succeeded  a  fearful  night  of  storm,  about 
fifteen  years  before  the  period  of  my  story.  The  hovel  she  then  lived  in  was 
so  near  the  beach,  that  even  the  rippling  of  the  summer  surge  cheered  the  lone- 
liness of  her  dwelling;  but  on  the  occasion  to  which  I  refer,  it  was  not  the 
"  soft  music  of  the  waters"  that  roused  her  from  her  bed  ;  but  the  often  repeated 
boom,  sounding  above  the  tempest,  which  she  well  knew  to  be  the  minute-gun 
of  distress  from  some  perishing  vessel. 

The  early  dawn  beheld  her  wandering  amongst  rocks  accessible  only  to  the 
sea-birds  and  herself.  She  clambered  the  highest  point,  and  extended  her  gaze 
over  the  ocean,  which  still  angrily  chafed  and  growled  along  the  shore.  Be- 
yond the  breakers,  the  surface  was  somewhat  smooth ;  but  little  was  seen  to 


326  KELLY    THE    PIPER. 

mark  where  the  islands  rested,  save  the  white  and  sparkling  foam,  dashing  and 
glittering  in  the  early  light,  finely  contrasted  with  the  deep  colouring  of  the  sky 
and  water.  Nelly  still  gazed,  and  now  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  for  she 
thought  she  discovered  something  like  a  motionless  mast  amongst  the  distant 
breakers.  She  was  confirmed  in  this  opinion  by  observing  several  floating  spars 
and  casks  rapidly  borne  towards  the  main  land.  On  descending  to  the  beach, 
she  found  many  of  the  neighbours  anxiously  watching  the  approach  of  what 
they  considered  lawful  plunder. 

"  The  wreck  is  between  the  Keeroes,  Jack,"  said  Nelly  to  a  rough,  shaggy- 
looking  man,  who,  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  water,  was  straining  every  nerve 
to  haul  in  a  cask,  in  danger  of  dashing  against  a  huge  dark  mass  of  rock,  that 
jutted  into  the  sea. 

"  And  what 's  it  to  you  or  me,  ould  girl  ? — 't  would  be  fitter  for  you  to  be  in 
your  bed,  than  down  on  the  wild  shore,  with  yer  whity-brown  hair  streaming 
about  yer  shoulders.  Ye  look  for  all  the  world  like  a  witch  !" 

"  It 's  you,  and  the  likes  of  ye,"  she  replied,  "  that  bring  disgrace  upon  poor 
Ireland.  Phil  Doran's  boat  has  passed  through  breakers  worse  nor  these,  and 
it  shall  go  out,  or  I  '11  know  the  rason  why ;  and  so  many  poor  strangers,  may- 
be, dying  at  this  blessed  moment  on  thim  islands  !" 

"  It 's  few  '11  go  wid  ye,  then,"  replied  the  man,  as  he  grappled  with  the  cask ; 
and,  pulling  it  in,  added,  "  if  it 's  strangers  ye  're  thinking  of,  there 's  one  come 
already,"  pointing  to  a  heap  of  sea-weed — "  his  bed  is  soft  enough,  at  any  rate. 
The  ould  fool,"  he  continued,  as  Nelly  strided  towards  the  spot,  "  she  '11  take 
more  trouble  about  that  sinseless  corpse  than  she  would  to  look  after  the  bits  o' 
Godsinds  the  wild  waters  bring  us." 

Nelly  found  the  body  of  a  youth,  apparently  about  eighteen,  nearly 
embedded  in  sea-weed.  She  disentangled  it  with  speed  and  tenderness,  carried 
it  up  the  cliffs,  dripping  as  it  was,  with  perfect  ease,  and  laid  it  out  before  the 
turf  fire  in  her  humble  hut.  One  of  the  arms  was  broken,  and  sorely  mangled  ; 
and  the  bitten  lip  and  extended  eyelids  plainly  told  that  the  youth  had  wrestled 
daringly  with  death. 

"  Ye  '11  no  more  gladden  your  mother's  heart,  or  bring  joy  to  your  father's 
home,"  sighed  the  excellent  creature,  when  perfectly  convinced  that  restoratives 
were  useless.  "  God  comfort  the  mother  that  bore  ye  ! — for  ye  were  brave  and 
handsome,  and,  may-be,  the  pride  of  more  hearts  than  one." 

As  the  morning  advanced,  tokens  of  extensive  shipwreck  crowded  the  beach, 
and  many  respectable  inhabitants  assembled,  to  prevent  plunder.  The  surf  still 
ran  so  high  that  Nelly's  pleadings  were  disregarded.  Although  the  mast  of  the 
lost  vessel  was  now  distinctly  seen,  the  hardiest  boatman  would  not  venture 
out  to  the  Keeroes. 

"  I  cannot  call  ye  Irishmen,"  said  she  after  using  many  fruitless  arguments 
to  urge  her  neighbours  to  attempt  the  passage ;  "  vile  Cromellians  are  ye  all, 
wid  not  a  drop  of  true  Milesian  blood  in  yer  shrivelled  veins !" 

The  evening  sun  had  cast  a  deep  red  light  over  the  ocean,  whose  waters 


KELLY    THE    PIPER.  327 

were  less  disturbed  than  they  had  been  at  noon ;  and  the  moon  rose,  with  calm 
majesty,  over  the  subsiding  waves  —  attended  by  her  train  of  silent  but  spark 
ling  handmaids,  scattering  light  and  brilliancy  over  her  path. 

Nelly  could  not  sleep ;  again  she  clambered  the  "  black  rock,"  and  scared 
the  sea-gull  from  its  nest  —  anxious  to  ascertain,  although  almost  beyond 
human  ken,  if  any  living  object  remained  on  the  Keeroes,  now  more  distinctly 
visible.  As  her  eye  wandered  along  the  shore,  it  rested  on  Phil  Doran's  boat, 
which  had  been  drawn  up  on  the  shingles ;  her  mind  was,  at  once,  made  up 
to  a  daring  enterprise.  No  village  clock  tolled  the  knell  of  the  departing 
hours,  but  she  knew  it  must  be  near  midnight.  She  returned  to  her  cabin, 
wrapt  a  long  cloak  around  her,  and  secured  a  botfle  of  spirits  in  the  hood. 
A  few  minutes  found  her  on  the  strand;  the  oars  were  in  the  strong,  but 
rude  fishing-boat,  and  she  soon  drew  it  to  the  water.  When  in  the  act  of  push- 
ing off,  a  head  appeared,  from  behind  one  of  the  rocks,  and  a  voice  exclaimed 
— "  Botheration  to  ye,  on  what  fool's  journey  are  ye  now  ?  It 's  myself  believes 
ye  've  doings  with  the  ould  one,  for  there 's  no  rest  for  a  body  near  ye,  day  nor 
night." 

"  Come,  Jack,"  replied  the  woman,  convinced  that  assistance  would  be  use- 
ful, "  it 's  calm  enough  now,  and  ye  may  find  something  on  thim  islands  you  'd 
like  to  have.  I  cannot  rest  in  pace,  while  I  think  there  may  be  a  living  thing 
on  the  rocks." 

The  love  of  plunder,  and  the  love  of  enterprise,  the  latter,  perhaps, 
inspired  by  the  whiskey  he  had  drank  during  the  day,  urged  Jack  to 
accompany  the  woman.  As  they  approached  the  Keeroes,  their  little 
bark  leaped  lightly  over  the  billows,  and  Nelly,  like  others  of  her  sex,  gloried 
in  her  opinion  being  correct,  for  the  mast,  and  part  of  the  rigging  of 
the  vessel,  still  adhered  to  the  wreck,  and,  absolutely,  hung  over  the  largest 
island. 

Jack  commenced  prowling  for  plunder ;  Nelly  could  not  perceive  a  single 
body  on  the  shore.  At  length  she  discovered  midway  the  mast,  something  like 
a  female  figure,  so  securely  fastened,  that  even  the  waters  must  fail  to  disen- 
tangle the  cords  and  scarfs,  with  which  the  hands  of  affection  had  secured  it  to 
what  appeared  the  last  refuge. 

"It's  a  faymale,  at  all  events,"  said  Jack,  when  Nelly  succeeded  in  fix- 
ing his  attention.  "I'm  sartin  it's  a  faymale:  so  here  goes!  —  bad  as  ye 
think  me  —  bad  as,  may-be,  I  am — -Jack  Connor  never  did  a  bad  turn  to  the 
women." 

He  managed  to  get  to  the  mast,  cut  the  braces,  and  lower  the  corpse  (for  so 
it  was),  enveloped  in  many  shawls,  into  Nelly's  arms. 

•«  She 's  gone,  as  well  as  the  boy  ye  picked  up  this  morning,  Nelly,"  he 
exclaimed. 

"  God,  in  his  mercy,  save  us  all !"  she  exclaimed,  falling  on  her  knees, 
"  God  in  his  mercy  save  us !  Her  stiff  arms  are  locked  over  a  living  baby,  and 
its  little  head  is  on  her  bare  bosom  !" 


328  KELLY    THE    PIPER. 

It  was  even  so.  The  lady  was  dead ;  her  weak  frame  had  been  unable  to 
retain  life  amid  so  many  horrors !  and  her  spirit  could  not  long  have  lingered 
behind  HIS,  whose  last  efforts  were  exerted  to  preserve  the  objects  of  his  purest 
affections,  when  to  others,  "all  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was — 
death !" 

Jack — croppy,  smuggler,  wrecker,  poacher,  white-boy,  rogue,  and  rapparee, 
as  he  either  was,  or  had  been — Jack  Connor  (I  wish  to  do  everybody  justice) 
placed  the  unfortunate  lady  carefully  in  the  boat,  took  off  his  jacket,  which  he 
added  as  another  covering  to  the  still  living  infant ;  and  without  plundering  a 
single  article,  or  uttering  a  single  sentence,  rowed  steadily  to  the  shore.  As 
he  carried  the  body  up  the  cliffs,  the  morning  light  was  stealing  over  the  now 
calm  ocean.  "  Nelly,"  said  he,  as  he  rested  the  burden  on  her  bed — "  Nelly, 
I  '11  never  gainsay  ye  agin ;  if  I  'd  done  yer  bidding  yesterday,  that  cratur 
would  be  a  living  woman  now." 

Nelly's  courage  and  humanity  gained  for  her  high  approbation.  The  vessel 
was  ascertained  to  have  been  a  Chinese  trader,  on  her  homeward  passage  ;  but 
of  the  crew  or  passengers,  none  remained,  except  the  infant  the  bathing-woman 
had  so  heroically  rescued. 

Mr.  Herriott  persuaded  Nelly,  for  the  sake  of  her  adopted  child,  to  take  up 
Vier  abode  at  the  avenue  lodge.  The  babe  was  called  May,  and  much  did 
Nelly  complain  of  what  she  termed  a  "  heathen  name."  But  Mr.  Herriott 
convinced  her  it  was  right,  as  the  letters  M.  A.  Y.  were  wrought  in  a  bracelet 
found  on  her  mother's  wrist.  No  inquiries  had  ever  been  made  about  the  little 
stranger,  and  her  story  was  seldom  thought  of;  but  she  was  very  different  from 
the  peasant  children;  not  so  fond  of  play,  and  always  sweetly  serious.  She 
heard  the  intelligence  that  the  pattern  was  to  be  celebrated  outside  the  great 
gates,  with  more  fear  than  pleasure,  and  could  hardly  understand  why  Miss 
Kelly  so  gloried  in  her  father's  having  gained  the  day.  Old  Nelly  "  stood  up" 
for  Mr.  Herriott's  ascendancy,  with  true  clan-like  feeling ;  not  that  she  cared 
for  the  pattern,  but  she  hated  soldiers,  and  constables,  and  lawyers,  and  water- 
guards,  because  she  knew  "  the  master"  hated  them ;  and  so,  in  honour  of  the 
pattern  victory,  she  told  May  she  should  cut  as  good  a  figure  as  any  of  them 
— and  better  too,  for  the  matter  of  that ;  there  was  a  long,  narrow  scarf,  that 
had  belonged  to  her  mother  (heaven  rest  her  soul !)  and  she  should  wear  it  as  a 

sash,  and  she  should  dance,  loo " 

"  I  do  not  care  for  dancing,  dear  nurse,"  observed  the  pale  girl ;  "  my  heart 's 
not  in  it ;  but  I  '11  do  my  best  to  plase  you ;  and  I  dare  say  it  will  be  a  merry 
pathern." 

And  so  it  was.  Such  a  pattern ! — such  a  sight  of  tents  had  never  been  seen 
by  the  oldest  man  in  the  parish,  except  at  the  fair  of  Ballynasloe,  which,  as 
Kelly  said,  he  had  never  seen,  but  only  heard  of!  Such  a  "  power"  of  people! 
There  was  the  old  Lord  of  Carrick,  as  he  was  called — the  most  respectable 
butcher  for  ten  miles  round,  with  his  bob- wig  over  his  grey  hair,  all  on  one 
side,  from  joy  and  whiskey.  There  was  Mickey  the  tailor,  with  his  seven  sons ; 


KELLY    THE    PIPER.  329 

such  fine  boys,  not  one  of  them  under  six  feet,  and  the  youngest  only  one-and- 
twenty.  There  was  Pat  Kenessy's  tent,  with  a  green  flag  flowing  without,  and 
whiskey  "  gilloure"  flowing  within.  There  was  Mary-the-Mant,  in  a  "  bran  new 
gown ;"  and  the  five  Misses  Kenessy,  with  every  earthly  and  heavenly  colour 
on  them,  except  orange.  Then  the  Corishes — the  never-ending  Corishes !— Pat 
Corish  and  his  childer ;  Jim  Corish,  and  his  childer ;  Tom  Corish,  and  his  chil- 
der ;  Mat  Corish,  and  his  childer — not  a  quiet  English  family  of  three  or  four 
young  ones  each — but  ten  or  fourteen  romping  rogues,  boys  and  girls,  with  sten- 
torian lungs  and  herculean  fists.  And  who  would  be  cruel  enough  to  interrupt 
their  amusements,  of  hurling,  jumping,  eating,  drinking,  dancing,  and  fighting,  in 
pattern  time  —  while  their  parents  were  employed,  generally  speaking,  pretty 
much  in  the  same  way?* 

"  The  grate  tint"  was  reserved  for  dancing,  when  the  "  quality"  came ;  and 
often  did  Kelly  parade  around  it,  to  see  that  all  was  right;  and  many  a  longing 
look  was  cast  down  the  avenue,  to  watch  if  the  gentry  were  approaching. 

"The  great  bell  did  not  ring  for  dinner  as  early  as  usual,"  said  Nelly 
Clarey  to  her  adopted,  as  she  placed  the  last  pin  in  her  sash,  and. arranged  the 
flapping  bows  to  her  own  peculiar  taste.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  go  amongst 
them  yet,  till  the  quality  come;  but  stay,"  she  continued,  "  let  me  try;"  and 
she  opened  a  little  box,  that  contained  a  chain,  three  rings,  arid  a  small,  but 
curiously  wrought,  bracelet  — "  stay ;  these  were  your  poor  mother's,  and 
beautiful  she  looked,  and  quiet, — when  I  took  thim  off,  and  swore  to  keep 
thim  for  you,  my  darlint,  and  never  let  poverty  part  thim  from  me.  But  it 's 
little  poverty  I  've  known,  thank  God  ;  and  blessings  on  him  and  his  that  pre- 
sarved  us  from  it."  4  During  this  speech,  Nelly  had  tried  first  one,  and  then  the 
other,  of  the  rings,  on  May's  fingers.  "  They  're  all  too  small  for  ye ;  well,  sure 
enough,  she.  had  the  sweetest  little  hand  I  ever  saw.  The  fastening  of  the 
chain  's  not  good,  or  ye  might  wear  that;  but  what's  to  hinder  ye  putting  on 
the  bracelet  1 — ye  cannot  lose  it.  M.  A.  Y. — it  was  yer  father's  and  mother's 
hair  that  formed  thim  letters,  I  '11  ingage."  May  gazed  upon  it,  and  tear-drops 
gathered  on  her  long  eyelashes. 

"  My  child — almost  my  own  child,"  said  the  affectionate  Nelly,  "  why  do  ye 
cry  1 — you  are  always  sad  when  others  are  merry.  Ah,  May,  May ;  you  'd 
forget — look  ! — there 's  Mr.  Herriott,  and  the  mistress,  and  the  young  lady,  and 
the  strange  dark  gentleman — master's  ould  frind,  they  say — at  the  gate ;  and 
you  not  fit  to  be  seen ;  there — stand  asy,  and  wash  your  eyes.  I  '11  attind  their 
honours ;  and  in  five  minutes  ye  '11  look  my  queen  agin." 

Kelly,  and  some  of  his  train  stood  outside  the  gate  ready  to  receive  "  the 
gintry ;"  and  way  was  soon  made  for  them  to  pass  along  the  line  of  tents. 

*  If  my  accomplished  countryman,  Mr.  Maclise,  met  in  the  county  of  Wexford  the  subject 
he  has  so  admirably  pictured,  and  which  stands  at  the  head  of  this  story,  it  must  have  been  at 
Taghmon — Taghmon  cheerless,  boisterous,  and  dirty,  even  in  these  days  of  temperance  and 
whitewash.  Well  might  Kelly  the  Piper  say  that,  "  though  the  Taghmon  girls  were  the  dick- 
ons  at  the  single  and  double  fling,  they  hadn't  a  taste  of  the  Bannow  modesty." 

42 


330 


KELLY    THE    PIPER. 


The  bustling  and  skirmishing  instantly  ceased.  The  men  held  their  hats  in 
their  hands,  and  the  women  rose  and  courtesied  respectfully,  as  Mr.  Herriott 
and  his  family  proceeded,  while  many  a  heartfelt  blessing  followed  their 
footsteps. 

Perhaps  the  most  perfect  happiness  in  the  world  is  that  which  a  good  Irish 
landlord  enjoys,  when  his  tenantry  are  really  devoted  to  his  service ;  because 
their  devotion  is  manifested  by  those  external  signs  which  can  only  emanate 
from  an  enthusiastic  temperament.  "  How  well  his  honour  looks! — sure  it's  a 
blessing  to  see  him  ;  and  the  mistress  so  queen-like,  and  yet  so  humble,  with  her 
kind  smile,  and  asking  after  the  childer,  so  motherly." 

"  Who  's  the  stranger  ?" 

"  From  foreign  parts,  I  b'lieve,  by  his  dark  skin." 

"Very  like;  in  all  yer  born  days,  did  ye  ever  see  anything  like  the  state 
Kelly  takes  on  himself?  to  be  sure  he's  o'  very  dacent  people,  and  the  best 
piper  in  the  whole  barony ;  but  there 's  rason  in  all  things,  and  there  '11  be  a 
power  of  gintry  in  the  pathern  before  night.  Mr.  Cormack  and  the  ladies,  Mr. 
Jocelyn,  and  Mr.  Lambton,  and,  may-be,  they  won't  put  up  wid  Kelly's  talk,  like 
the  rest." 

"  Never  heed ;  sure,  they  all  know  his  ways ;  but  come,"  and  the  oldest 
crone  of  the  assembly  rose  off  a  seat,  where  four  or  five,  "  withered  and  wild  in 
their  attire,"  had  been  sitting  smoking  their  "  doodeens,"  and  making  observa- 
tions on  everybody,  under  the  shadow  of  one  of  the -great  piers.  "Come, 
they  're  crowding  into  the  tint,  and  we  '11  be  all  behind,  like  the  cow's  tail,  if  we 
don't  make  haste." 

Kelly  had  taken  his  seat,  or,  rather,  erected  his  throne,  on  the  top  of  one  of 
the  largest  casks  that  could  be  procured  in  the  parish;  and  on  forms,  at  each 
side  of  the  musician,  were  seated  the  "  gentlefolk  ;" — a  small  space  between — 
and  men,  women,  and  children,  crouched  or  stood,  as  they  best  could  manage, 
leaving  sufficient  room  for  the  dancers ;  for  which  purpose,  certainly,  not  much 
•was  required,  as  either  reel  or  jig  can  be  performed  on  a  good-sized  door,  al- 
ways taken  off  its  hinges,  and  laid  on  "  the  sod"  for  the  purpose. 

The  wide  entrance  to  the  tent  was  crowded  with  a  mass  of  laughing  Irish 
faces,  beaming  with  joy. 

Paddy  Madder — who  but  Paddy  Madder  was  fit  to  open  the  ball  ?  Paddy, 
the  oldest  man  in  the  parish,  and,  in  his  youth,  it  was  said  (for  none  remem- 
bered it),  the  finest  dancer  ever  seen  in  all  Ireland.  Paddy  acquitted  himself 
nobly,  considering  that  he  had  numbered  eighty  and  two  years ;  and  Mr.  Her- 
riott placed  the  old  man  by  his  side,  and  heard,  with  delight,  of  the  youthful 
feats  which  age  so  dearly  loves  to  dwell  upon. 

Miss  Kelly  next  dropped  her  bob  courtesy  to  young  Tom  Corish;  who,  after 
"  covering  the  buckle"  to  admiration,  and  beating  his  partner  at  the  "  highland 
fling,"  made  "  a  remarkable  genteel  bow"  to  poor  May,  heedless  of  the  smiles 
and  approbation  pert  Jane  Roche  bestowed  on  his  performance.  May  was  not 
at  all  flattered  by  the  distinction,  and  clung  to  her  nurse's  side,  until  desired,  in 


KELLY    THE    PIPER.  331 

an  authoritative  tone,  by  Kelly,  to  "  step  out,  and  not  look  so  sheepish."  May 
danced,  I  must  confess,  very  badly,  but  she  looked  very  lovely ;  timidity  and 
exercise  gave  a  colour  to  her  cheek  which  it  seldom  possessed,  and  her  light, 
sylph-like  form,  graced  by  the  flowing  sash,  formed  a  strange  contrast  to  the 
almost  gigantic  figure  of  her  partner. 

"  Who  is  that  girl  ?"  inquired  the  strange  gentleman  of  Mr.  Herriott. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  WHO  she  is,  but  she  has  been  nursed  by  a  very  deserving 
woman,  who  attends  our  gate  lodge." 

"  Indeed." 

The  gentleman  again  looked  at  her.  As  May  continued,  she  forgot  she  was 
the  object  of  general  attention,  and  danced  with  more  spirit.  The  stranger  rose 
from  his  seat,  and  appeared  to  watch  her  movements  with  extraordinary  anxiety. 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  he  to  Mr.  Herriott,  "  but  that  child  is  singularly  like  one 
whom  I  loved  more  than  any  earthly  being  ; — my  sister  Anna." 

"  Indeed  ;  I  never  saw  her ; — but  you  often  mentioned  her  to  me  when  we 
were  schoolfellows ;  do  you  remember  saying  how  much  you  should  like  me 
for  a  brother-in-law  ?" 

"  Boyhood's  imaginings,  my  dear  friend.  She  returned  to  her  family  at 
Calcutta,  when  her  education  was  completed,  and  married  a  young  merchant, 
her  inferior  in  rank — but  I  knew  she  was  happy,  and  forgave  it — poor  Anna  ! 
She  accompanied  him  to  China,  and,  if  their  traffic  succeeded,  they  were  to 
have  voyaged  to  England.  I  found  they  embarked  on  board  a  vessel  for  the 
purpose,  but " 

"  Shame  upon  ye !"  exclaimed  Tom  Corish,  loud  enough  to  interrupt  the 
narrative  Mr.  Herriott  was  so  earnestly  attending  to ;  "  ye  know  his  honour 
does  not  dance,  May,  but  it 's  only  manners  for  ye  to  ax  his  honour's  frind  to 
take  a  step,  now  that  ye  've  bate  me  clane  off,  lazy  as  ye  wint  about  it." 

Poor  May  made  her  courtesy,  all  panting  and  blushing  as  she  was,  and, 
without  saying  a  word,  or  looking  up,  extended  her  hand  to  lead  him  to  "  the 
floor ;"  but  she  uttered  a  piercing  shriek,  when,  seizing  her  arm  with  a  powerful 
grasp,  the  stranger  half  dragged — half  carried  her,  to  the  entrance  of  the  tent ; 
there  he  tenderly  supported  the  frightened  girl,  but  still  held  the  arm  she  had 
extended  to  him  with  unrelaxing  firmness ;  while  his  eyes  wandered  from  her 
face  to  the  golden  bracelet  which  her  nurse  had  clasped.  The  peasantry  were 
perfectly  unable  to  comprehend  the  matter.  Kelly  descended  from  his  throne  ; 
and  Nelly  Clarey  looked  quite  thunderstruck.  She  was,  however,  the  first  to 
recover  her  surprise. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  glowering  that  way  on  my  child  ?" 

"  Your  child,  woman  !  Herriott,  you  said  she  was  not  hers ;  you  said  you 
could  not  say  who  she  was.  Speak,  I  entreat,  for  mercy  speak,  and  tell  me 
how  that  bracelet  came — who  gave  it  her?" 

"  Nobody  gave  it  her,"  replied  Nelly ;  "  I  myself  took  it  off  her  mother's  arm 
— God  rest  her  soul ! — the  very  morning  that  Jack  Connor  and  I  picked  thim 
both  out  of  the  salt  shrouds.  The  waves  were  her  early  cradle,  poor  thing !" 


332  KELLY    THE    PIPER. 

"  How  long  since  ?" 

"  Oh,  for  the  matter  o'  that,  it  will  be  fifteen  years,  come  next  Candlemas." 

The  strange  gentleman  let'  the  braceleted  wrist  drop,  and  folded  the  trembling 
May  to  his  bosorn. 

"  She  is  my  sister's  child,"  said  he,  when  he  could  speak,  "  and  henceforth 
mine." 

Mr.  Herriott  suggested  the  propriety  of  their  going  into  the  lodge.  Poor 
Nelly  followed  the  gentry,  keeping  close  to  her  adopted,  muttering,  "  I  have 
lost  her  now,  any  how."  The  rings  and  the  chain  were  produced ;  but  the 
strongest  witness  was  the  bracelet ;  M.  A.  Y.  were  the  united  initials  of  May's 
father  and  mother ;  and  a  spring  under  the  clasp,  which  had  escaped  observa- 
tion, discovered  a  miniature  of  Mr.  Monnett  (the  strange  gentleman)  which  he 
had  himself  given  to  his  beloved  sister,  as  a  token  of  affection,  on  her  leaving 
Calcutta. 

"  So  ye  're  a  lady  after  all,  by  fortune  as  well  as  birth,"  said  Nelly,  looking 
affectionately  at  May,  "  and  I  must  call  ye  Miss ;  and  ye  Ml  be  no  more  near 
me ;  and  no  more  shall  I  hear  yer  sweet  voice  in  the  soft  summer  evenings, 
calling  to  me  from  the  wood,  or  reading  to  me  whin  the  snow  hangs  the  trees 
with  white,  like  cherry  blossoms ;  and  the  place  will  miss  ye ;  and  I  shall  be 
left  desolate  in  my  ould  age.  But  ye  '11  think  of  me  ;  think  of  yer  poor  nurse, 
Nelly,  who,  on  her  bare  knees" — and  as  she  knelt  she  extended  her  clasped 
hands  to  heaven — "  prays  that  the  tear  o'  sorrow  may  niver  dim  yer  eye ;  that 
the  blush  o'  shame  may  niver  paint  yer  cheek ;  that  the  blessings  o'  the  poor 
may  strew  the  sweetest  summer  flowers  in  yer  path ;  and  that  a  long  life  and  a 
happy  death  may  be  yer  blessing ;  and  after,"  continued  she,  solemnly,  "  in 
heaven — in  the  presence  of  the  Father  and  his  holy  saints,  may  the  poor  Ban- 
now  woman  see  ye  la  bright  angel  of  glory  !" 

May  flung  herself  on  her  nurse's  bosom ;  and  Mr.  Monnett  assured  them, 
he  hoped  they  wonld  never  be  separated  ;  "  for  I  think,  Nelly,"  said  he,  "  May 
looks  so  delicate  that  she  will  need  your  kind  care  wherever  she  goes;  and  she 
would  be  unworthy  of  my  affection  if  she  wished  to  leave  you."  Consequently, 
there  was  not  a  single  sorrowful  heart  among  the  population,  rich  and  poor,  of 
"  the  united  parishes  of  Bannow  and  Kilkaven." 

"  Any  body  might  see,"  exclaimed  Kelly,  half  an  hour  afterwards,  when  May 
appeared  at  the  gate,  for  a  moment,  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  her  for- 
mer companions,  leaning  on  the  one  side  on  her  uncle,  on  the  other,  on  her 
nurse — "  anybody  might  see  that  she  had  always  the  gentle  drop  in  her ;  and  I 
tould  you  so,  Miss  Jinny,  my  lady,"  continued  he,  sneeringly,  to  Jane  Roche, 
who  had  always  treated  poor  May  with  contempt,  and  looked  somewhat  dis- 
concerted at  her  sudden  elevation ;  "  fine  feathers  don't  always  make  fine 
birds."  Miss  Jenny,  however,  had  one  consolation;  hereafter,  a  powerful  rival 
would  be  removed  out  of  the  way. 

"  Kelly,"  said  Mr.  Herriott,  "  but  for  you  this  discovery  would  not  have  been 


KELLY    THE    PIPER. 


333 


made ;  for  there  would  have  been  no  pattern ;  therefore,  my  boys,  crown  him 
king  of  pipers,  patterns  and  whiskey  ;  and  plenty  of  that,  and  good  Irish  roast 
beef,  shall  you  have,  and  a  glorious  supper  outside  these  gates — peace — plenty 
— and  whiskey !" 

"  King  Kelly  for  ever,  and  long  life  to  the  May !"  cried  Mickey  the  tailor ; 
and  they  chaired,  or  rather  shouldered,  Kelly  round  the  green ;  and  poured  a 
noggin  of  pure  whiskey  over  his  head,  which  made  him  as  good  a  king  as  the 
best  of  them  (they  said) ;  and  the  Piper  composed  a  jig,  extempore,  that  beat 
jig  Polthouge,  and  all  the  jigs  ever  made,  before  or  since,  clean  out  of  the  field, 
and  called  it  the  "  Lady  May." 


MASTEE  BEN. 


TATELY,  and  tall,  and  gaunt,  was  "  Master  Ben ;" 
with  a  thin  sprinkling  of  white,  mingled  with  the 
slightly-curling  brown  hair,  that  shaded  a  forehead, 
high,  and  somewhat  narrow.  With  all  my  partiality 
for  this  very  respectable  personage,  I  must  confess 
that  his  physiognomy  was  neither  handsome  nor  in- 
teresting ;  yet  there  was  a  calm  and  gentle  expres- 
sion in  his  pale,  grey  eyes,  that  told  of  much  kind- 
heartedness — even  to  the  meanest  of  God's  creatures. 
His  steps  were  strides ;  his  voice  shrill,  .like  a  boat- 
swain's whistle ;  and  his  learning — prodigious  ! — the 
unrivalled  dominie  of  the  country,  for  five  miles 
round,  was  Master  Ben. 

Although  the  cabin  of  Master  Ben  was  built  of  the 
blue  shingle,  so  common  along  the  eastern  coast  of 
Ireland,  and  was  perched,  like  the  nest  of  a  pewet,  on 
one  of  the  highest  crags  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Ban- 
now  ;  although  the  aforesaid  Master  Ben,  or  (as  he  was  called  by  the  gentry) 
**  Mister  Benjamin,"  had  worn  a  long  black  coat  for  a  period  of  fourteen  years 

(334) 


MASTER   BEN.  335 

— in  summer,  as  an  open  surtout,  which  flapped  heavily  in  the  gay  sea-breeze — 
and  in  winter,  firmly  secured,  by  a  large  wooden  pin,  round  his  throat — the 
dominie  was  a  person  of  much  consideration,  and  more  loved  than  feared,  even 
by  the  little  urchins  who  often  felt  the  effects  of  his  "  system  of  education."  Do 
not,  therefore,  for  a  moment,  imagine  that  his  was  one  of  the  paltry  hedge- 
schools,  where  all  the  brats  contribute  their  "  sod  o'  turf,"  or  their  "  small  trifle 
o'  pratees,"  to  the  schoolmaster's  fire  or  board.  No  such  thing ;  though  I  con- 
fess that  "  Mister  Benjamin"  would,  occasionally,  accept  "  a  hand  of  pork,"  a 
kreel,  or  even  a  kish  o'  turf,  or  three  or  four  hundred  of  "  white-eyes,"  or 
"  London  ladies,"  if  they  were  presented,  in  a  proper  manner,  by  the  parents  of 
his  favourite  pupils. 

In  summer,  indeed,  he  would,  occasionally,  lead  his  pupils  into  the  open  air, 
permitting  the  biggest  of  them  to  bring  his  chair  of  state ;  and  while  the  fresh 
ocean  breeze  played  around  them,  he  would  teach  them  all  he  knew,  and  that 
was  not  a  little ;  but,  usually,  he  considered  his  lessons  more  effectual,  when 
they  were  learned  under  his  roof ;  and  it  was,  in  truth,  a  pleasing  sight  to  view 
his  cottage  assemblage,  on  a  fresh  summer  morning; — such  rosy,  laughing, 
romping  things !  "  The  juniors,"  with  their  rich  curly  heads,  red  cheeks,  and 
bright,  dancing  eyes,  seated  in  tolerably  straight  lines — many  on  narrow  strips 
of  blackened  deal — the  remnants,  probably,  of  some  shipwrecked  vessel — sup- 
ported at  either  end  by  fragments  of  grey  rock ;  others  on  portions  of  the  rock 
itself,  that  "Master  Ben"  used  to  say,  "though  not  very  asy  to  sit  upon  for 
gossoons,  were  clane,  and  not  much  trouble."  "  The  seniors,"  fine  clever-look- 
ing fellows,  intent  on  their  sums  or  copies — either  standing  at,  or  leaning  on 
the  blotted  "  desks,"  that  extended  along  two  sides  of  the  school-room,  kitchen,  or 
whatever  you  may  please  to  call  so  purely  Irish  an  apartment ;  the  chimney 
admitted  a  large  portion  of  storm  or  sunshine,  as  might  chance ;  but  the  low 
wooden  partition,  which  divided  this  useful  room  from  the  sleeping  part  of  the 
cabin,  at  once  told  that  Master  Ben's  dwelling  was  of  a  superior  order. 

At  four,  the  dominie  always  dismissed  his  assembly,  and  heart-cheering  was 
the  joy  that  succeeded.  On  the  long  summer  evenings,  the  merry  groups  would 
scramble  down  the  cliffs — which  in  many  places  overhang  the  wide-spreading 
ocean — heedless  of  danger — 

"  And  jump,  and  laugh,  and  shout,  and  clap  their  hands 
In  noisy  merriment." 

The  seniors  then  commenced  lobster  and  crab-hunting,  and  often  showed 
much  dexterity  in  hooking  the  gentlemen  out  of  their  rocky  nests,  with  a  long, 
crooked  stick  of  elder,  which  they  considered  "  lucky."  The  younkers  were 
generally  content  with  shrimping,  or  knocking  the  limpits  —  or,  as  they  call 
them,  the  "  branyans,"  off  the  rocks ;  while  the  wee-wee  ones  slyly  watched 
the  ascent  of  the  razor-fish,  whose  deep  den  they  easily  discovered  by  its  tiny 
mountain  of  sand. 

Even  during  their  hours  of  amusement,  Master  Ben  was  anxious  for  their 


336  MASTER   BEN. 

welfare ;  and  enthroned  on  a  high  pinnacle,  that  commanded  a  boundless  view 
of  the  wide-spreading  sea,  with  its  numerous  creeks  and  bays,  he  would 
patiently  sit,  hour  after  hour — one  eye  fixed  on  some  dirty,  wise,  old  book, 
while  the  other  watched  the  various  schemes  and  scampings  of  his  quondam 
pupils — until  the  fading  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  the  shrill  screams  of  the 
sea-birds,  warned  master  and  scholar  of  the  coming  night. 

Every  one  agreed  that  "  Master  Ben"  was  very  learned — but  how  he  became 
so  was  what  nobody  could  tell ;  some  said  (for  there  are  scandal-mongers  in 
every  village)  that,  long  ago,  Master  Ben's  father  was  convicted  of  treasonable 
practices,  and  obliged  to  fly  to  "  foreign  parts"  to  save  his  life ;  his  child  was 
the  companion  of  his  wanderings,  according  to  this  statement.  But  there  was 
another,  far  more  probable ; — that  our  dominie  had  been  a  poor  scholar — a  class 
of  students  peculiar,  I  believe,  to  Ireland,  who  travel  from  province  to  province, 
with  satchels  on  their  backs,  containing  books,  and  whatever  provisions  are 
given  them,  and  devote  their  time  to  study  and  begging.  The  poorest  peasant 
will  share  his  last  potato  with  a  wandering  scholar,  and  there  is  always  a  couch 
of  clean  straw  prepared  for  him  in  the  warmest  corner  of  an  Irish  cabin.  Be 
these  surmises  true  or  false,  everybody  allowed  that  Master  Ben  was  the  most 
clever  schoolmaster  between  Bannow  and  Dublin :  he  would  correct  even 
Father  Sinnott,  "  on  account  o'  the  bog-latin  his  reverence  used  at  the  altar 
itself."  "  His  reverence"  always  took  this  in  good  part,  laughed  at  it,  but  never 
omitted  adding,  slyly,  "  The  poor  cratur ! — he  thinks  he  knows  betther  than 
me  !"  I  must  say,  that  the  laugh  which  concluded  this  sentence  was  much  more 
joyous  than  that  at  the  commencement. 

The  dominie's  life  passed  very  smoothly,  and  with  apparent  comfort ; — 
strange  as  it  may  sound  to  English  ears — comfort.  A  mild,  half-witted  sister, 
who  might  be  called  his  shadow — so  silently  and  calmly  did  she  follow  his  steps, 
and  do  all  that  could  be  done,  to  make  the  only  being  she  loved  happy — shared 
his  dwelling.  The  potatoes,  she  planted,  dug,  and  picked,  with  her  own  hands ; 
milked  and  tended  "  Nanny"  and  "  Jenny,"  two  pretty,  merry  goats,  who  de- 
voured not  only  the  wild  heather  and  fragrant  thyme,  which  literally  cover  the 
sand  banks  and  hills  of  Bannow,  but  made  sundry  trespasses  on  the  flower-beds 
at  the  "  great  house,"  and  defied  pound,  tether,  and  fetter,  with  the  most  rogue- 
ish  and  provoking  impudence.  I  had  almost  forgotten — but  she  small-plaited 
in  a  superior  and  extraordinary  manner ;  and — poor  thing ! — she  was  as  vain 
of  that  qualification  as  any  young  lady,  who  rumbles  over  the  keys  of  a  grand 
piano,  and  then  triumphantly  informs  the  audience  that  she  has  played  "  The 
Storm." 

"  Changeful  are  all  the  scenes  of  life,"  says  somebody  or  other ;  and  when 
I  was  about  ten  years  old,  "  Master  Ben"  underwent  two  very  severe  trials — 
trials  the  poor  man  had  never  anticipated ;  one  was  teaching,  or  trying  to  teach, 
me  the  multiplication  table — an  act  no  mortal  man  (or  woman  either)  ever 
could  accomplish;  the  other  was— falling  in  love.  As  "Master  Ben"  was  the 
best  arithmetician  in  the  county,  he  was  the  person  fixed  on  to  instruct  me  in 


MASTER    BEN.  337 

the  most  puzzling  science — no  small  compliment  I  assure  you — and  he  was 
obliged  to  arrange,  so  as  to  leave  his  pupils  twice  a  week  for  two  long  hours. 
"  Master  Ben"  rose  in  estimation  surprisingly,  when  this  was  known ;  and,  on 
the  strength  of  it  got  two-pence  instead  of  three-halfpence  a  week  from  his 
best  scholars  :  he  thought  he  should  also  gain  credit  by  his  new  pupil's  progress. 
How  vain  are  man's  imaginings  !  From  the  first  intimation  I  received  of  the 
intended  visits  of  my  tutor,  I  felt  a  most  lively  anticipation  of  much  fun  and 
mischief. 

"  Now,  Miss,  dear,  don't  be  full  o'  yer  tricks,"  said  pretty  Peggy  O'Dell,  who 
had  the  especial  care  of  my  person.  "  Now,  Miss,  dear,  stand  asy — you  won't  ? 
— well,  then,  I  '11  not  tell  ye  the  news— no,  not  a  word  !  Oh,  ye  're  asy  now, 
are  ye !  Well,  then — to-morrow,  Frank  tells  me,  Master  Ben  is  to  come  to 
tache  you  the  figures ;  and  good  rason  has  Frank  to  know,  for  he  druv  the 
carriage  to  Master  Ben's  own  house,  and  hard  the  mistress  say  all  about  it ;  and 
that  was  the  rason  ye  were  left  at  home,  mavourneen,  with  yer  own  Peggy ; 
becase  the  ladies  wished  to  keep  it  all  sacret  like,  till  they  'd  tell  ye  their  own 
selves.  Oh,  Miss,  dear,  asy — asy — till  I  tie  yer  sash  ! — there,  now — now  you 
may  run  off;  but  stay  one  little  minit — take  kindly  to  the  figures.  I  know  you 
can't  abide  them  now,  but  I  hear  they  are  main  useful ;  and  take  to  it  asy — as 
quiet  as  you  can;  Master  Ben  has  fine  laming,  and  expicts  much  credit  for 
tacheing  the  likes  of  you.  And  why  not  ?" 

Poor  Benjamin ! — he  certainly  did  stride  to  the  manor,  and  into  the  study, 
next  morning;  and,  in  due  time,  I  worked  through,  that  is,  I  wrote  out  the 
questions,  and  copied  the  sums,  with  surprising  dexterity,  in  "  numeration," 
"  addition  of  integers,"  "  compound  subtraction,"  and  entered  the  "  single  rule 
of  three  direct,"  with  much  eclat.  My  book  was  shown,  divested  of  its  blots  by 
my  kind  master's  enduring  knife ;  and  even  my  cousin  (the  only  arithmetician  in 
the  family)  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  that,  if  I  did  the  sums  myself,  I  was 
a  very  good  girl  indeed.  That  if  destroyed  my  reputation.  I  had  too  much 
honour  to  tell  a  story. 

What  a  passion,  to  be  sure,  the  dominie  got  into  the  next  day,  when  informed 
of  my  disgrace  !  I  cannot  bear  to  see  a  long,  thin  man  in  a  passion,  to  this  very 
hour ;  there  is  nothing  on  earth  like  it,  except  a  Lombardy  poplar  in  a  storm. 
However,  if  poor  Master  Ben  was  tormented  in  the  study  by  me,  he  was  more 
tormented  in  the  servants'  hall  by  pretty  Peggy. 

Peggy  was  exactly  a  lively  Irish  coquet :  such  merry,  twinkling,  black  eyes ; 
such  white  teeth,  which  were  often  exposed  by  the  loud  and  joyous  laugh,  that 
extended  her  large  but  well-formed  mouth ;  and  such  a  bounding,  lissom  figure, 
always  (no  small  merit  in  an  Irish  lassie)  neatly,  if  not  tastefully,  arrayed.  She 
was  an  especial  favourite  with  my  dear  grandmother,  who  had  been  her  patron 
from  early  childhood ;  and  Peggy  fully  and  highly  valued  herself  on  this  ac- 
count. Then  she  could  read  and  write  in  her  own  way ;  wore  lace  caps,  with 
pink  and  blue  bows ;  and,  as  curls  were  interdicted,  braided  her  raven  locks 
with  much  care  and  attention. 
43 


338  MASTER    BEN. 

The  smartest,  prettiest  girl,  at  wake  or  pattern,  for  ten  miles  round,  was  cer- 
tainly Peggy  O'Dell ;  and  many  lovers  had  she ;  from  Thomas  Murphy  of  the 
Hill  (the  richest)  who  had  a  cow,  six  pigs,  and  all  requisites  to  make  a  woman 
happy,  according  to  his  own  account,  to  Wandering  Will  (the  poorest),  who, 
though  not  five-and-twenty,  had  been  a  jovial  sailor,  a  brave  soldier,  a  capital 
fiddler,  a  very  excellent  cobbler,  a  good  practical  surgeon  (he  had  performed 
several  very  clever  operations  as  a  dentist  and  bone-setter,  I  assure  you),  and, 
at  last,  settled  as  universal  assistant  at  the  manor  house ;  cleaned  the  carriage 
and  horses  with  Frank,  waited  at  table  with  Dennis,  helped  Martha  to  carry 
home  the  milk,  instructed  Peter  Kean  how  to  train  vines  in  the  Portuguese 
fashion  (which  foreign  treatment  had  so  ill  an  effect  on  our  poor  Irish  vines, 
that,  to  Wandering  Will's  eternal  disgrace,  they  withered  and  died — a  circum- 
stance honest  Peter  never  failed  to  remind  him  of,  whenever  he  presumed  to 
suggest  any  alteration  in  horticultural  arrangements),  had  the  exclusive  care 
of  the  household  brewing,  and  was  even  detected  in  assisting  old  Margaret 
hunting  the  round  meadow  for  eggs,  which  the  obstinate  lady-fowl  preferred 
hiding  among  brakes  and  bushes,  to  depositing,  in  a  proper  manner,  in  the  hen- 
house. Moreover,  Will  was  "  the  jewil"  of  all  the  county  during  the  hunting 
and  shooting  season — knew  all  the  fox  earths,  and  defied  the  simple  cunning  of 
hare  and  partridge ;  made  love  to  all  the  pretty  girls  in  the  village ;  and  as  he 
was  handsome,  notwithstanding  the  loss  of  one  of  his  beautiful  eyes,  everybody 
said  that  no  one  would  refuse  William,  were  he  even  as  poor  again,  as  he  was — 
an  utter  impossibility.  The  rumour  spread,  however,  that  his  wandering  affec- 
tions were  actually  settled  into  a  serious  attachment  for  Peggy ;  but  who  Peggy 
was  in  love  with  was  another  matter.  She  jested  with  everybody,  and  laughed 
more  at  Master  Ben  than  at  any  one  else ;  she  was  always  delighted  when  an 
opportunity  occurred  of  playing  off  droll  tricks  to  his  disadvantage ;  and  some 
of  her  jokes  were  so  practical,  that  the  housekeeper  frequently  threatened  to 
inform  her  mistress  of  her  pranks.  Master  Ben  was  always  the  first  to  prevent 
this ;  and  his  constant  remonstrance — "  Mistress  Betty,  let  the  innocent  cratur 
alone,  she  manes  no  harm;  she  knows  I  don't  mind  her  youthful  fun  —  the 
cratur !"  saved  Peggy  many  a  reproof. 

One  morning  I  had  been  more  than  ordinarily  inattentive;  and  my  tutor,  per- 
plexed, or  as  he  termed  it,  "  fairly  bothered,"  requested  to  speak  to  my  grand- 
mother ;  when  she  granted  him  audience.  He  stammered  and  blundered  in 
such  a  manner,  that  it  was  quite  impossible  to  ascertain  what  he  wanted  to 
speak  about ;  at  length  out  it  came — "  He  had  saved  a  good  pinny  o'  money, 
and  thought  it  time  to  settle  in  life." 

"  Settle,  Mister  Benjamin  ! — why,  I  always  thought  you  were  a  settled,  sober 
man.  What  do  you  mean '!"  inquired  my  grandmother. 

"  To  get  married,  ma'am ;"  rousing  all  his  energies  to  pronounce  the  fatal 
sentence. 

"  Married  !"  repeated  my  grandmother  ;  "  married  ! — you,  Benjamin  Ratlin, 
married  at  your  lime  of  life ! — and  to  whom  ?" 


MASTER    BEN.  339 

"  I  was  only  eight-and-forty,  madam,"  he  replied  (drawing  himself  up),  "  my 
last  birthday ;  and,  by  your  lave,  I  mane  to  marry  Peggy  O'Dell." 

"Peggy!  —  you  marry  Peggy!"  She  found  it  impossible  to  maintain  the 
sober  demeanour  necessary  when  such  declarations  are  made.  "  Mister  Ben- 
jamin, Peggy  is  not  twenty,  gay  and  giddy  as  a  young  fawn ;  and,  I  must  con- 
fess, I  should  not  like  her  to  marry  for  four  or  five  years.  Now,  as  you  cer- 
tainly cannot  wait  all  that  time,  I  think  you  ought  to  think  of  some  one  else." 

"  Your  pardon,  madam ;  she  is  my  first,  and  shall  be  my  last,  love.  And  I 
know,"  added  the  dominie,  looking  modestly  on  the  carpet,  "  that  she  has  a  tin- 
derness  for  me." 

"  What !  Peggy  a  tenderness  for  you ! — poor  child  ! — quite  impossible  !"  said 
my  grandmother,  "  she  never  had  the  tenderness  you  mean  for  any  living  man,  I  '11 
answer  for  it ;"  and  the  bell  was  rung  to  summon  Miss  Peggy  to  the  presence. 

She  entered — blushed  and  simpered  at  the  first  questions  put  to  her ;  at  last 
my  grandmother  deliberately  asked  her,  if  she  had  given  Mister  Ben  encourage- 
ment at  any  time — and  this  she  most  solemnly  denied. 

"  Oh,  you  hard-hearted  girl,  you  ! — did  you  ever  cease  laughing  from  the  time 
I  came  in  till  I  went  out  o'  the  house? — weren't  you  always  smiling  at  me,  and 
playing  your  pranks,  and — " 

"  Stop  !"  said  Peggy,  at  once  assuming  a  grave  and  serious  manner ;— "  stop  ; 
may-be  I  laughed  too  much — but  I  shall  cry  more,  if — (and  she  fell  on  her  knees 
at  my  grandmother's  feet) — if  ye  don't  forgive  me,  mistress,  dear — almost  the 
first,  sartainly  the  last,  time  I  shall  ever  offend  you." 

"  Child,  you  have  not  angered  me ;"  replied  my  grandmother,  who  saw  her 
emotion  with  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  but  I  know  best — I  have — I  have — I  know  I  have ! — but  I  'II  never 
do  so  more — never — never  !" — and  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Poor  Master 
Ben  stood  aghast. 

"  Speak,"  said  my  grandmother,  almost  bewildered  :  "  speak,  and  at  once — 
what  have  you  done  1" 

"  Oh !  he  over-persuaded  me,  and  said  ye  'd  never  consint  till  it  was  done  ; 
and  so  we  were  married,  last  night,  at  Judy  Ryan's  station." 

"  Married  !  to  whom,  in  the  name  of  wonder?" 

"  Oh,  Willy — Wandering  Willy  ;  but  he  '11  never  wander  more  ;  he  '11  be 
tame  and  steady,  and,  to  the  last  day  of  his  life,  he '11  sarve  you  and  yours; 
and  only  forgive  me,  your  poor  Peggy,  that  ye  saved  from  want,  and  that  '11 
never  do  the  like  again — no,  never !"  The  poor  girl  clasped  her  hands  im- 
ploringly, but  did  not  dare  to  look  her  mistress  in  the  face.  My  grandmother 
rose  and  left  the  room ;  she  was  much  offended ;  nor  could  it  be  denied  that 
Peggy's  conduct  was  highly  improper.  The  child  of  her  bounty,  she  had  acted 
with  duplicity,  and  married  a  man  whose  unsteady  habits  promised  little  for  her 
comfort. 

Poor  Master  Ben ! — lovers'  sorrows  furnish  abundant  themes  for  jest  and 
jesters ;  but  they  are  not  the  less  serious,  on  that  account,  to  those  immediately 


340 


MASTER    BEN. 


concerned  in  les  affaires  du  cceur.  When'  he  heard  the  confession  that  she  was 
truly  married,  he  looked  at  her  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  quitted  the  house, 
determined  never  to  enter  it  again.  Peggy  and  her  husband  were  dismissed  ; 
but  a  good  situation  was  soon  procured  for  Will,  as  commander  of  a  small 
vessel,  that  traded  from  Waterford  to  Bannow,  with  corn,  coal,  timber,  "  and 
sundries."  Contrary  to  all  expectation,  he  made  a  kind  and  affectionate 
husband. 

Winter  had  nearly  passed,  and  Peggy  almost  ceased  to  dread  the  storms  that 
scatter  so  many  wrecks  along  our  frowning  coast.  Her  little  cabin  was  a  neat, 
cheerful  dwelling,  in  a  sheltered  nook ;  and  often,  during  her  husband's  absence, 
did  she  go  forth  to  look  out  upon  the  ocean-flood — 

"  With  not  a  sound  beside,  except  when  flew 
Aloft  the  lapwing,  or  the  grey  curlew  ;" 

and  gaze,  and  watch  for  his  sail  on  the  blue  waters.  On  the  occasion  to  which 
I  refer,  he  had  been  long  expected  home ;  and  many  of  the  rich  farmers,  who 
used  coal  instead  of  turf,  went  down  to  the  pier  to  inquire  if  the  "  Pretty 
Peggy"  (so  Will  called  his  boat)  had  come  in.  The  wind  was  contrary,  but,  as 
the  weather  was  fair,  no  one  thought  of  danger.  Soon,  the  little  bark  hove  in 
sight,  and  soon  was  Peggy  at  the  pier,  watching  for  his  figure  on  deck,  or  for 
the  waving  of  hat  or  handkerchief,  the  beloved  token  of  recognition :  but  no 
such  token  appeared.  The  dreadful  tale  was  soon  told.  Peggy,  about  to  be- 
come a  mother,  was  already  a  widow. 

Will  had  fallen  overboard,  in  endeavouring  to  secure  a  rope  that  had  slipped 
from  the  side  of  his  vessel ;  the  night  was  dark,  and  one  deep,  heavy  splash 
alone  knelled  the  departure  of  poor  Wandering  Willy. 

Peggy,  forlorn  and  desolate,  suffered  the  bitter  pains  of  child-birth  ;  and,  in  a 
few  hours,  expired — her  heart  was  broken. 

About  five  years  after  this  melancholy  event,  I  was  rambling  amongst  the 
tombs  and  ruins  of  the  venerable  church  of  Bannow.  Every  stone  of  that  old 
pile  is  hallowed  to  my  remembrance ;  its  bleak  situation,  the  barren  sand-hills 
that  surround  it,  and 

"  The  measured  chime,  the  thundering  burst," 

of  the  boundless  ocean,  always  rendered  it,  in  my  earliest  days,  a  place  of 
grand  and  overpowering  interest.  Even  now 

"I  miss  the  voice  of  waves— the  first 
That  awoke  my  childhood's  glee ;" 

and  often  think  of  the  rocks,  and  cliffs,  and  blue  sea,  that  first  led  my  thoughts 
"  from  nature  up  to  nature's  God  !" 

I  looked  through  the  high-arched  window  into  the  churchyard,  and  observed 
an  elderly  man,  kneeling  on  one  knee,  employed  in  pulling  up  the  docks  and 


MASTER    BEN. 


341 


nettles  that  overshadowed  an  humble  grave,  under  the  south  wall.  A  pale, 
delicate  little  girl  quietly  and  silently  watched  all  he  did ;  and,  when  no  offen- 
sive weed  remained,  carefully  scattered  over  it  a  large  nosegay  of  fresh  flowers, 
and,  instructed  by  the  aged  man,  knelt  on  the  mound,  and  lisped  a  simple  prayer 
to  the  memory  of  her  mother. 

It  was,  indeed,  my  old  friend,  "  Master  Ben ;"  the  pale  child  he  had  long 
called  his — it  was  the  orphan  daughter  of  William  and  Peggy.  His  love  was 
not  the  love  of  worldlings ;  despite  his  outward  man,  it  was  pure  and  unsophisti- 
cated ;  it  pleased  God  to  give  him  the  heart  to  be  a  father  to  the  fatherless. 
The  girl  is  now  the  blessing  of  his  old  age ;  and,  as  he  has  long  since  given  up  his 
school,  he  finds  much  amusement  in  instructing  his  adopted  child,  who,  I  under- 
stand, has  already  made  great  progress  in  his  favourite  science  of  numbers. 


-.-      ,- 


INDEPENDENCE. 

F  all  others,  "  Independence"  is  the  word  that  Irish — 
men,  women  and  children — least  understand ;  and  the 
calmness,  or  rather  indifference,  with  which  they  sub- 
mit to  dependence,  bitter  and  miserable  as  it  is,  must 
be  a  source  of  deep  regret  to  all  who  "  love  the  land," 
or  who  feel  anxious  to  uphold  the  dignity  of  human 
kind.  Let  us  select  a  few  cases,  in  different  grades, 
from  a  single  village — such  as  are  abundant  in  every 
neighbourhood.  , 

Shane  Thurlough,  for  example,  "  as  dacent  a  boy," 
and  Shane's  wife,  "  as  clane-skinned  a  girl,"  as  any  in 
the  world.  There  is  Shane,  an  active,  handsome- 
looking  fellow,  leaning  over  the  half  door  of  his 
cottage,  kicking  a  hole  in  the  wall  with  his  brogue, 
and  picking  up  all  the  large  gravel  stones  within  his 


INDEPENDENCE.  343 

roach,  wherewith  to  pelt  those  useful  Irish  scavengers,  the  ducks.  Let  us  speak 
to  him. 

"  Good  morrow,  Shane  !" 

"  Och  !  the  bright  bames  of  heaven  on  ye  every  day !— and  kindly  welcome, 
my  lady  !— and  won't  ye  step  in  and  rest  ? — it 's  powerful  hot,  and  a  beautiful 
summer,  sure — the  Lord  be  praised  !" 

"  Thank  you,  Shane.  I  thought  you  were  going  to  cut  the  hay-field  to-day ; 
if  a  heavy  shower  come,  it  will  be  spoiled :  it  has  been  fit  for  the  scythe  these 
two  days." 

"Sure,  it's  all  owing  to  that  thief  o'  the  world,  Tom  Parrel,  my  lady. 
Didn't  he  promise  me  the  loan  of  his  scythe? — and,  by  the  same  token,  I  was 
to  pay  him  for  it ;  and,  depinding  on  that,  I  didn't  buy  one — what  I  've  been 
threatening  to  do  for  the  last  two  years." 

"  But  why  don't  you  go  to  Carrick  and  purchase  one  ?" 

"  To  Carrick !  Och,  '  tis  a  good  step  to  Carrick,  and  my  toes  are  on  the 
ground  (saving  your  presence),  for  I  depended  on  Tim  Jarvis  to  tell  Andy  Cap- 
pier,  the  brogue  maker,  to  do  my  shoes ;  and— bad  luck  to  him,  the  spalpeen  ! 
— he  forgot  it." 

"  Where  's  your  pretty  wife,  Shane  ?" 

"  She 's  in  all  the  woe  o'  the  world,  ma'am  dear ;  and  she  puts  the  blame  of 
it  on  me,  though  I  'm  not  in  fault  this  time,  any  how :  the  child  's  taken  the 
small  pock ;  and  she  depinded  on  me  to  tell  the  doctor  to  cut  it  for  the  cow- 
pock,  and  I  depinded  on  Kitty  Cackle,  the  limmer,  to  tell  the  doctor's  own  man, 
and  thought  she  would  not  forget  it,  becase  the  boy 's  her  bachelor — but  out  o' 
sight,  out  o'  mind — the  never  a  word  she  tould  him  about  it,  and  the  babby  has 
got  it  nataral,  and  the  woman's  in  heart  trouble  (to  say  nothing  o'  myself) — 
and  it  the  first,  and  all." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  indeed,  for  you  have  got  a  much  better  wife  than  most 
men." 

"  That 's  a  true  word,  my  lady — only  she 's  fidgetty-like,  sometimes ;  and  says 
I  don't  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  quick  enough  ;  and  she  takes  a  dale  more  trouble 
than  she  need  about  many  a  thing." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  Ellen's  wheel  without  flax  before,  Shane  !" 

"  Bad  cess  to  the  wheel ! — I  got  it  this  morning  about  that,  too— I  depinded 
on  John  Williams  to  bring  the  flax  from  O'Flaharty's  this  day  week,  and  he 
forgot  it ;  and  she  says  I  ought  to  have  brought  it  myself,  and  I  close  to  the 
spot :  but  where 's  the  good,  says  I,  sure  he  '11  bring  it  next  time." 

"  I  suppose,  Shane,  you  will  soon  move  into  the  new  cottage,  at  Clurn  Hill. 
I  passed  it  to-day,  and  it  looked  so  cheerful ;  and,  when  you  get  there,  you 
must  take  Ellen's  advice,  and  depend  solely  on  yourself." 

"  Och,  ma'am  dear,  don't  mintion  it ! — it 's  that  makes  me  so  down  in  the 
mouth,  this  very  minit.  Sure  I  saw  that  born  blackguard,  Jack  Waddy,  and  he 
comes  in  here,  quite  innocent-like — 'Shane,  you've  an  eye  to  'Squire's  new 


344  INDEPENDENCE. 

lodge  ?'  says  he.  '  May-be  I  have,'  says  I.  *  I  'm  yer  man,'  says  he.  '  How 
so  ?'  says  I.  '  Sure  I  'm  as  good  as  married  to  my  lady's  maid,'  said  he ;  '  and 
I  '11  spake  to  the  'Squire  for  you,  my  own  self.'  '  The  blessing  be  about  ye,' 
says  I,  quite  grateful — and  we  took  a  strong  sup  on  the  strength  of  it;  and 
depinding  on  him  I  thought  all  safe ; — and  what  d'  ye  think,  my  lady  !  Why. 
himself  stalks  into  the  place — talked  the  'Squire  over,  to  be  sure — and,  without 
so  much  as  « by  yer  lave,'  sates  himself  and  his  new  wife  on  the  laase  in  the 
house,  and  I  may  go  whistle." 

"  It  was  a  great  pity,  Shane,  that  you  didn't  go  yourself  to  Mr.  Clurn." 
"  That 's  a  true  word  for  ye,  ma'am  dear ;  but  it 's  hard  if  a  poor  man  can't 
have  a  frind  to  DEPIND  on." 

"James  Doyle,  General  Dealer,"  and  a  neat  good-looking  shop  it  was — 
double  fronted — its  multifarious  contents,  doubtless,  very  amusing.  Mr.  Doyle 
was  a  sleek,  civil  little  man  as  any  in  the  county,  and  much  respected ;  he 
would  have  been  rich  also,  were  it  not  that  he  was,  unfortunately,  a  widower, 
with  five  daughters.  If  you  had  seen  his  well-stored  counters  and  shelves,  and 
the  extraordinary  crowd  that  assembled  in  his  shop,  you  would  have  felt 
certain  that  everything  was  to  be  had  within — pins,  ribands,  knives,  scissors, 
tobacco-pipes,  candles,  mouse-traps,  tea,  soap,  sugars,  tape,  thread,  cotton,  flax, 
wool,  paper,  pens,  ink,  snuff  and  snuff-boxes,  beads,  salt-herrings,  cheese,  butter, 
muslins  (such  beauties),  calicoes  (like  cambric),  linens  (better  than  lawn), 
twine,  ropes,  slates,  halters,  stuffs,  eggs,  bridles,  stockings,  turf,  delisk,  pepper, 
mustard,  vinegar,  knitting-needles,  books — namely,  the  "  Reading  made  Easy ;" 
"  Life  of  Freney,  and  his  many  wonderful  escapes,  showing  how,  after  his  being 
a  most  famous  Robber,  he  lived  and  died  a  good  Catholic  Christian  in  the 
beautiful  and  celebrated  town  of  Ross,  in  the  ancient  county  of  Wexford," 
"  Valentine  and  Orson,"  "  Seven  Champions  of  Christendom,"  and  such  like — 
which  books,  by  the  way,  turn  the  heads  of  half  our  little  girls  and  boys.  The 
village  shop  would  have  vended  its  finery  to  greater  advantage,  if  there  had 
been  no  direct  communication  with  Wexford ;  for  it  must  be  confessed  that 
some  of  the  pretty  lasses  took  it  into  their  heads  to  be  dissatisfied  with  the 
goods  at  the  big  shop,  and  absolutely  sent  for  their  Sunday  elegancies  to  the 
county  town ;  but,  nevertheless,  James  Doyle  would  have  made  a  fortune,  if 
his  five  daughters  had  been  willling  to  assist  him  in  his  business.  Had  you 
seen  them,  they  would  not  have  appeared  like  the  industrious  children  of  an 
English  tradesman,  who  invariably  think  it  their  duty  to  make  every  effort  for 
the  well-doing  of  their  family,  and  exert  themselves,  either  at  home  or  abroad, 
to  procure  "  Independence."  Could  the  slatternly  appearance  of  the  five  Misses 
Doyle,  or  their  tawdry  finery,  designate  any  beings  in  the  world  except  the 
daughters  of  an  ill-regulated  Irish  shopkeeper?  I  say  ill-regulated,  because, 
truly,  all  are  not  so ;  very  far  from  it.  Their  mother  died  when  they  were 
young,  and  their  father  unadvisedly  sent  them  to  one  of  those  hot-beds  of  pride 


INDEPENDENCE.  345 

and  mischief,  a  "  fifteen  pound"  boarding-school  in  a  garrison  town,  where  they 
learned  to  work  tent-stitch,  and  despise  trade.  When  they  returned,  honest 
Doyle  saw  he  could  not  expect  anything  from  them  in  the  way  of  usefulness, 
and  not  possessing  much  of  that  uncommon  quality,  miscalled  common  sense,  he 
was  contented  to  support  them  in  idleness,  hoping  that  their  pretty  faces  might 
catch  the  unwary. 

"And  sure,"  said  Miss  Sally,  the  first-born,  to  Miss  Stacy,  the  second 
hope  of  the  family — "  haven't  we  had  six  months  a-piece  at  Miss  Brick's  own 
school? — can't  our  father  affoord  us  a  clear  hundred  each,  down,  in  yallow 
guineas  1 — hasn't  he  got  a  thousand,  may-be  more,  at  the  very  laste  pinny,  in 
Wexford  Bank? — and  if  he,  with  such  a  power  o'  money,  demanes  himself  by 
keeping  a  paltry  shop,  instead  of  living  like  a  gentleman  upon  his  property,  and 
cutting  a  dash  to  get  us  dacent  husbands,  not  bog-trotters,  there  's  no  rason  in 
life  why  we  should  attind  to  it.  I  hope  we  have  a  better  spirit,  all  of  us,  than 
to  do  the  likes  o'  that,  indeed  !" 

And  so  the  five  Misses  Doyle  chose  the  handsomest  "prints"  in  the  shop 
for  their  own  especial  use ;  loitered  the  mornings  en  papillotte,  lounging  up 
the  street,  or  down  the  street,  or  staring  out  of  the  window,  their  shoes  slip- 
shod, and  the  torn-out  strings  replaced  by  pins,  that  invariably  made  one  rent 
while  they  secured  another;  and  in  the  evenings  excited  the  stare  of  the  silly, 
and  the  contempt  of  the  wise,  by  their  over-dressed,  but  ill-arranged,  persons, 
parading  in  trumpery  finery  and  French  curls.  Then  they  were  perpetually 
quarrelling,  although  their  tastes  on  matrimonial  points  were  very  similar ;  and 
if  a  young  farmer,  or,  more  delightful  still,  a  "  boy"  from  Wexford  or  Water- 
ford,  put  up  at  the  village — mercy  bless  us !  What  a  full  cry  !  Such  a  set ! — 
five  to  one ! 

Take  a  specimen  of  the  quarrels  of  the  five  rivals  in  love. 

"  Little  good,  Babby,  there  is  in  your  trying  to  make  anything  dacent  of  that 
head  of  yours,  as  long  as  it 's  so  bright  a  carroty."  "  It 's  no  sich  thing  as 
carroty,  Stacy,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  look  at  yer  own  nose.  Sure  no  one 
in  life  would  think  it  worth  their  while  to  be  afther  a  pug  dog."  "  It 's  good 
fun  to  hear  the  pair  o'  ye  argufying  about  beauty — beauty,  indeed  !"  interrupted 
Miss  Sally,  tossing  her  head,  and  eying  her  really  very  pretty  person  in  the 
cracked  looking-glass.  "  Oh,  to  be  sure,  you  think  yourself  wonderful  hand- 
some !"  exlaimed  two  of  the  girls  at  once.  "  I  never  could  see  any  beauty  in 
curds  and  whey,"  continued  she  of  the  elevated  nose.  "  Ye  little  go-by-the- 
ground,  keep  out  of  my  way,"  said  the  tallest  sister,  Johanna,  to  the  shortest, 
Cicely ;  "  ye  keep  as  much  bother  about  yer  dress,  as  if  ye  were  a  passable 
size."  "  Hould  yer  tongue,  ye  long  gawky,"  retorted  the  little  one,  "  there 's  no 
use  in  your  dressing  at  the  stranger  boy — he  's  not  a  grenadier !" 

Poor  Doyle !  Miss  Sally  ran  off  with  a  walking  gentleman,  who  refused  to 
marry  her  unless  her  portion  was  made  three  hundred  pounds.  "  Oh,"  said 
the  father,  "the  pride  of  my  heart  she  was,  but  it's  bad  to  depind  upon 
44 


346  INDEPENDENCE. 

beauty!"  True,  Doyle,  or  upon  anything  —  except  well-regulated  industry. 
If  he  would  come  into  partnership,  he  might  be  useful,  but  the  gentleman 
disdained  trade.  The  poor  father  mortgaged  part  of  his  property,  paid  the 
money,  and  Sally  was  married ;  but  in  less  than  a  year,  was  returned  on  his 
hands  with  the  addition  of  a  helpless  infant,  the  scorn  of  her  unfeeling  sisters. 
Stacy  was  the  next  to  heap  sorrow  on  the  old  man's  head ;  she,  to  use  her  own 
expression,  "  met  with  a  misfortune,"  for  she  depended  on  "  the  boy's"  honour ; 
but  her  sin  was  too  degrading  to  allow  of  her  continuing  in  the  house.  Cicely 
married — honestly  married,  a  daring,  dashing  smuggler,  who,  depending  on  his 
former  good  fortune,  dared  an  exploit  in  the  contraband  trade,  which  would 
have  banished  him  for  ever  from  the  country,  had  not  Doyle  again  mortgaged 
his  property  to  save  him ;  the  young  man's  good  name  was  gone,  however, 
and  he  lived  depending  on  his  father-in-law,  who  now  began  to  suffer  seriously 
from  pecuniary  embarrassment.  Johanna  married  what  was  called  well,  that 
is,  the  young  man  was  a  gentleman  farmer,  too  proud  to  look  after  his  own 
affairs ;  he  depended  upon  his  "  right-hand  man,"  or  the  goodness  of  the  times, 
or  anything  but  his  own  exertions,  for  his  success — speculated,  failed,  prevailed 
on  his  unfortunate  relative  to  bail  him,  and,  in  open  defiance  of  truth  and 
honesty,  fled  to  America. 

Then,  indeed,  the  wail  and  the  woe  resounded  in  that  house  where  peace,  and 
comfort,  and  happiness  might  have  dwelt ;  and  the  old  man's  bed  was  the  cold 
jail  floor,  and  the  family  were  scattered,  and  branded  with  sin  and  shame,  and 
all  for  want  of  INDEPENDENT  feelings. 

The  Honourable  Mister  Augustus  Headerton,  who  once  lived  in  yonder  villa, 
was  the  youngest  of  eleven  children,  and,  consequently,  the  junior  brother  of  the 
noble  Lord  of  Headerton,  nephew  of  the  Honourable  Justice  Cleaveland, 
nephew  of  Admiral  Barrymore,  K.  C.  B.,  &c.  &c.  &c. ;  and  cousin,  first, 
second,  third,  fourth,  fifth,  sixth  or  seventh  remove — to  half  the  honourables  and 
dishonourables  in  the  country. 

When  the  old  Earl  died,  he  left  four  Chancery  suits,  and  a  nominal  estate, 
to  the  heir  apparent,  to  whom  he  also  bequeathed  his  three  younger  brothers 
and  sisters,  who  had  only  small  annuities  from  their  mother's  fortune,  being  as- 
sured that  (to  use  his  own  words)  "  he  might  depend  on  him  for  the  honour  of 
the  family  to  provide  for  them  handsomely."  And  so  he  did  (in  his  own  estima- 
tion) ; — his  lady  sisters  had  "  the  run  of  the  house,"  and  Mr.  Augustus  Header- 
ton  had  the  run  of  the  stables,  the  use  of  hunters  and  dogs,  and  was  universally 
acknowledged  to  possess  a  "  proper  spirit,"  because  he  spent  three  times  more 
than  his  income.  "  He  bates  the  world  and  all,  for  beauty,  in  the  hunting  jacket !'' 
exclaimed  the  groom.  •'  He  flies  a  gate  beyant  any  living  sowl  I  iver  see ;  and 
his  tally-ho !  my  jevvil — 't  would  do  yer  heart  good  to  hear  his  tally-ho  !"  said 
my  Lord's  huntsman.  "  He  's  a  generous  jintleman  as  any  in  the  kingdom — 
I  '11  say  that  for  him,  any  day  in  the  year,"  echoed  the  coachman.  "He's  ad- 


INDEPENDENCE.  347 

mired  more  nor  any  jintleman  that  walks  Steven's-green  in  a  month  o'  Sundays, 
I  '11  go  bail,"  continued  Miss  Jenny  Roe,  the  ladies'  maid. 

"  Choose  a  profession  !  "  Oh,  no  ! — impossible  !  But  the  Honourable  Mr. 
Augustus  Headerton  chose  a  wife,  and  threw  all  his  relations,  including  Lord 
Headerton,  the  Honourable  Justice  Cleaveland,  Admiral  Barrymore,  K.  C.  B., 
and  his  cousins  to  the  fiftieth  remove,  into  strong  convulsions,  or  little  fits.  She, 
the  lady,  had  sixty  thousand  pounds :  that,  of  course,  they  could  not  object 
to.  She  had  eloped  with  the  honourable  Mister  Augustus  Headerton;  — 
mere  youthful  indiscretion.  She  was  little  and  ugly;  —  that  only  concerned 
her  husband.  She  was  proud  and  extravagant;  —  these  were  lady-like  fail- 
ings. She  was  ignorant  and  stupid;  her  sisters-in-law  would  have  pardoned 
that.  She  was  vulgar;  —  that  was  awkward.  Her  father  was  a  carcass 
butcher  in  Cole's-lane  Market ! — death  and  destruction ! 

It  could  never  be  forgiven ! — the  cut  direct  was  unanimously  agreed  on,  and 
the  little  lady  turned  up  her  little  nose  in  disdain,  as  her  handsome  barouche 
rolled  past  the  lumbering  carriage  of  the  Right  Honourable  Lord  Headerton. 
She  persuaded  her  husband  to  purchase  that  beautiful  villa,  in  view  of  the 
family  domain,  that  she  might  have  more  frequent  opportunities  of  bringing,  as 
she  elegantly  expressed  it,  "  the  proud  beggars  to  their  trumps  ; — and  why  not  ? 
— money 's  money,  all  the  world  over."  The  Honourable  Mister  Augustus  de- 
2)ended  on  his  agent  for  the  purchase,  and  some  two  thousand  and  odd  pounds 
were  consequently  paid,  or  said  to  have  been  paid,  for  it,  more  than  its  value. 
And  then  commenced  the  general  warfare ;  full  purse  and  empty  head — versus 
no  purse  and  old  nobility.  They  had  the  satisfaction  of  ruining  each  other : 
in  due  course  of  time,  the  full  purse  was  emptied  by  devouring  duns,  and  the 
old  nobility  suffered  by  its  connexion  with  vulgarity. 

"  I  want  to  know,  Honourable  Mister  Augustus  Headerton,"  (the  lady  always 
gave  the  full  name  when  addressing  her  husband ;  she  used  to  say  it  was  all 
she  got  for  her  money) — "  I  want  to  know,  Honourable  Mister  Augustus 
Headerton,  the  reason  why  the  music-master's  lessons,  given  to  the  Misses 
Headerton  (they  were  blessed  with  seven  sweet  pledges  of  affection),  have  not 
been  paid  for  ?  I  desired  the  steward  to  see  to  it,  and  you  know  I  depend  on 
him  to  settle  these  matters." 

The  Honourable  Mrs.  Augustus  Headerton  rang  the  bell  — "  Send 
Martin  up."  , 

"  Mister  Martin,"  the  lady  began,  "  what  is  the  reason  that  Mr.  Langi's 
account  has  not  been  paid  ?" 

"  My  master,  ma'am,  knows  that  I  have  been  anxious  for  him  to  look  over  the 
accounts ;  the  goings-out  are  so  very  great,  and  the  comings-in,  as  far  as  I 
know — "  the  Honourable  Mister  Augustus  Headerton  spilt  some  of  the  whiskey- 
punch  he  was  drinking,  over  a  splendid  hearth-rug,  which  drew  the  lady's  atten- 
tion from  what  would  have  been  an  unpleasant  eclaircissement. 

"  I  cannot  understand  why  difficulties  should  arise.    I  am  certain  I  brought 


348  INDEPENDENCE. 

a  fortune  large  enough  for  all  extravagance,"  was  the  lady's  constant  remark, 
when  expenditure  was  mentioned.  Years  pass  over  the  heads  of  the  young — 
and  they  grow  old ; — and  over  the  heads  of  fools — but  they  never  grow  wise. 

The  Honourable  Mister  and  Mistress  Augustus  Headerton  were  examples 
of  this  truth ;  their  children  grew  up  around  them — but  could  derive  no  sup- 
port from  the  parent  root.  The  mother  depended  on  governesses  and  masters 
for  the  education  of  her  girls — and  on  their  beauty,  connexions,  or  accom- 
plishments, to  procure  them  husbands.  The  father  did  not  deem  the  labours 
of  study,  fit  occupation  for  the  sons  of  an  ancient  house : — "  Depend  upon  it," 
he  would  say,  "  they  '11  all  do  well  with  my  connexions — they  will  be  able  to 
command  what  they  please."  The  Honourable  Mistress  Augustus  could  not 
now  boast  of  a  full  purse,  for  they  had  long  been  living  on  the  memory  of  their 
once  ample  fortune. 

The  Honourable  Mister  Augustus  Headerton  died,  in  the  forty-fifth  year  of  his 
age,  of  inflammation,  caught  in  an  old  limekiln,  where  he  was  concealed,  to 
avoid  an  arrest  for  the  sum  of  one  hundred  and  eighty  guineas,  for  Black  Nell, 
the  famous  filly  (who  won  the  cup  on  the  Curragh  of  Kildare) — purchased  in 
his  name,  but  without  his  knowledge,  by  his  second  son,  the  pride  of  the  family, 
— commonly  called  Dashing  Dick. 

All  I  know  further  of  the  Honourable  Mistress  Augustus  Headerton 
is,  that— 

"  She  played  at  cards,  and  died." 

Miss  Georgiana — the  beauty,  and  greatest  fool  of  the  family,  who  depended 
on  her  face  as  a  fortune,  did  get  a  husband, — an  old,  rich,  West  India  planter, 
and  eloped,  six  months  after  marriage,  with  an  officer  of  dragoons. 

Miss  Celestina  was  really  clever  and  accomplished.  "  Use  her  abilities  for 
her  own  support !"  Oh,  no ! — not  for  worlds !  Too  proud  to  work,  but  not  too 
proud  to  beg,  she  depended  on  her  relations,  and  played  toady  to  all  who  would 
have  her. 

Miss  Louisa — not  clever ;  but  in  all  other  respects,  ditto — ditto. 

Miss  Charlotte  was  always  very  romantic ;  refused  a  respectable  banker  with 
indignation,  and  married  her  uncle's  footman — for  love. 

Having  sketched  the  female  part  of  the  family,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  remem- 
ber of  the  gentlemen. 

"  The  Emperor,"  as  Mr.  Augustus  was  called,  from  his  stately  manner  and 
dignified  deportment,  aided  by  as  much  self-esteem  as  could  well  be  contained 
in  a  human  body,  depended,  without  any  "  compunctious  visitings  of  conscience," 
on  the  venison,  claret  and  champagne  of  his  friends,  and  thought  all  the  time  he 
did  them  honour — and  thus  he  passed  his  life. 

"  Dashing  Dick"  was  the  opposite  of  the  Emperor  ;  sung  a  good  song — told 
a  good  story — and  gloried  in  making  ladies  blush.  He  depended  on  his  cousin, 
Colonel  Bloomfield's  procuring  him  a  commission  in  his  regiment,  and  cheated 


INDEPENDENCE. 


349 


tailors,  hosiers,  glovers,  coach-makers,  and  even  lawyers,  with  impunity. 
Happily  for  the  world  at  large,  Dashing  Dick  broke  his  neck,  in  a  steeple-chase, 
on  a  stolen  horse,  which  he  might  have  been  hanged  for  purloining,  had  he  lived 
a  day  longer. 

Ferdinand  was  the  bonne-bouche  of  the  family ;  they  used  to  call  him  "  the 
parson!"  Excellent  Ferdinand!  —  he  depended  on  his  own  exertions;  and,  if 
ever  the  name  of  Headerton  rises  in  the  scale  of  moral  or  intellectual  superiority, 
it  will  be  owing  to  the  steady  and  virtuous  efforts  of  Mister  Ferdinand  Header- 
ton,  merchant,  in  the  good  city  of  B ;  for  he  possesses,  in  perfection,  "the 

glorious  privilege  of  being  INDEPENDENT." 


[ 


! 


HOSPITALITY. 


OSPITALITY  — no  formality  —  there  you'll  ever 
see ;" — so  runneth  the  old  song.  Quite  true — true  to 
the  very  letter :  and  there  was  not  a  more  hospitable 
house,  in  the  province  of  Leinster,  than  Barrytown. 
"  Kindly  welcome"  was  visibly  expressed  by  every 
countenance,  and  all  things  bore  the  stamp  of — "  Hos- 
pitality!" The  master  was  large;  the  house  was 
large ;  the  trees  were  large ;  the  entrance-gates  were 
large;  the  servants  were  large;  all  the  domestic 
animals  were  large;  the  worthy  owner's  heart  was 
large — and  so  was  his  purse.  He  was  cheerful  and 
happy ;  his  house,  particularly  in  the  shooting  or  sum- 
mer season,  was  always  full  of  company,  more  nu- 
merous than  select,  but  all  resolved  to  enjoy  them- 
selves, and  Mr.  Barry,  their  worthy  host,  determined 
to  promote  their  enjoyment.  I  have  said  his  house 
was  large — it  was  almost  magnificent.  It  stood  on  a  gentle  declivity,  and  com 
manded  a  pleasing,  though  not  very  extensive,  prospect ;  the  entrance-hall  was 

(350) 


HOSPITALITY.  35  L 

lofty,  and  wide ;  the  walls  well-garnished  with  fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods,  and 
at  the  farthermost  end,  the  antediluvian  horns  of  a  monstrous  elk,  which  spread 
even  to  the  ceiling's  height.  Of  this  extraordinary  production  of  nature  Mr. 
Barry  was  very  proud,  and  boldly  challenged  the  Dublin  museum  to  produce  its 
equal.  The  pavement  of  the  hall  was  formed  of  beautiful  Kilkenny  marble  ; 
its  polish  certainly  had  fleparted,  yet  the  rich  and  varied  veins  were  distinctly 
visible.  Dogs  of  various  sizes — from  the  stately  Dane,  the  graceful  staghound, 
the  shaggy  Newfoundland — to  the  fawning  spaniel,  the  little  rat-catching,  black- 
muzzled  terrier,  and  the  sleepy,  silky  Blenheim — considered  the  hall  as  their 
own  exclusive  property,  yet  lived  on  terms  of  perfect  good-fellowship  with  a 
Killarney  eagle,  a  Scotch  raven,  and  a  beautiful  Angola  cat,  who  shared  the 
same  territory ;'  the  latter,  indeed,  looked  upon  a  deer-skin  covered  couch  as 
dedicated  to  her  sole  use  and  benefit. 

The  great  dining-room  was  worthy  of  such  an  entrance;  it  was  wainscoted 
with  black  oak,  and,  at  the  top  of  the  apartment,  the  extreme  darkness  of  the 
wood  threw  into  strong  relief  the  massive  sideboard,  with  its  highly-wrought, 
antique  plate.  The  dining-table  rested  on  enormous  pillars,  and  bore  evident 
marks  of  having  seen  good  service  in  convivial  times ;  the  chairs  were  high- 
backed,  and  richly  carved,  cushioned  with  crimson  damask ;  and  the  large 
wine-coolers,  and  plate-buckets  were  rimmed  and  hooped  with  silver.  "  The 
family  canvass,"  in  heavy  framework,  smiled  or  frowned  along  the  walls,  just 
as  they  ought  to  smile  or  frown ;  and  represented,  to  say  the  truth,  a  grim, 
clumsy-looking  set  of  personages ;  even  the  pastoral  young  lady,  who  was  play- 
ing on  a  pipe — the  sheep  (I  suppose  they  were  sheep)  looking  tearfully  in  her 
face — her  well-powdered  hair  graced  by  a  celestial  blue  riband :  even  she,  the 
beauty  of  the  party,  squinted  most  frightfully.  But  the  good  Mr.  Barry  had  a 
profound  veneration  for  them  all,  so  we  will  leave  them  without  further  com- 
ment. The  curtains  and  carpet  had  seen  their  best  days,  and  Mr.  Barry  had 
been  talking  about  purchasing  new  for  the  last  ten  years  ;  nevertheless,  the  old 
remained,  and  certainly  looked  very  venerable.  The  withdrawing-room,  or,  as 
the  "  master"  called  it,  the  ladies'  proper  apartment,  held  a  motley  assemblage 
of  new  and  old  furniture;  a  splendid  rosewood  piano  was  placed  next  to  a 
towering  old  triangular  flower-stand,  with  monkey  heads,  and  scallop  shells  at 
the  corners,  but  which,  nevertheless,  served  as  a  "  what  not."  Silken 
Ottomans  reclined  in  eastern  luxury,  near  to  less  elegant,  but  more  sedate, 
hard-stuffed  sofas ;  and  a  lumbering  old  arm-chair,  covered  with  cream- 
coloured  embroidered  satin,  the  cushion  fringed  and  tasseled  with  gold,  stood 
to  the  right  of  the  fire-place ;  a  small  stool,  garnished  after  the  same  antique 
fashion,  and  a  little  table  inlaid  with  silver,  which  appeared  hardly  able  to 
support  an  old  family  Bible,  with  studded  clasps,  were  placed  beside  it. 

The  interesting  occupier  of  the  arm-chair  was  no  less  a  person  than  Lady 
Florence  Barry,  the  mother  of  the  hospitable  master.  I  never  saw  so  beautiful 
a  relic  of  female  nobility ;  when  I  remember  her,  she  was  verging  on  her  nine- 
tieth birth-day  ;  her  figure  delicate  and  much  bent ;  her  eye  black  as  jet,  small 


352  HOSPITALITY. 

and  sparkling,  fringed  by  brows  and  lashes  which  time  had  rendered  per- 
fectly white.  Her  features  had  been  handsome,  but  at  such  an  age  were  much 
wrinkled,  and  her  own  hair  straightly  combed  from  under  the  high  lappet  cap, 
added  to  her  venerable  appearance.  The  dress  she  wore  was  always  of  the 
most  valuable  black  Genoa  velvet  or  satin,  made  after  the  olden  mode,  with 
deep  ruffles  of  Mechlin  or  Brussels  lace,  and  a  small  cloak  of  rich  black  silk, 
fastened  at  the  breast  with  a  diamond  brooch.  The  old  lady  was  very  deaf, 
but  her  sight  was  perfect ;  and  when  she  received  her  son's  guests,  she  did  it 
with  so  much  grace,  so  much  dignity,  that  it  could  never  be  forgotten.  Per- 
haps the  affectionate  respect  and  attention  manifested  by  Mr.  Barry  to  his 
mother  was  the  most  delightful  trait  in  his  character.  "  She  brought  noble 
blood,  and  a  princely  dower  to  my  father,"  he  would  say,  "and  made  him  a  true 
and  loving  wife  to  the  end  of  his  days ;  and  when,  in  the  full  bloom  of  woman- 
hood, she  became  husbandless,  for  my  sake  she  remained  so.  Can  I  honour  her 
too  much  ?" 

Mr.  Barry  had  nothing  in  particular  to  distinguish  him  from  "  the  raale 
true-born  gintry."  He  had  a  fair  and  open  brow,  that  unerring  index  to  a 
noble  soul,  and  a  manly  expression  of  countenance ;  but  he  had  more  of  his 
lather's  heedlessness  than  of  his  mother's  penetration,  and,  at  sixty-two,  knew 
less  of  "  the  world"  than  most  of  our  fashionables  after  they  have  been  "  a  win- 
ter in  London." 

The  domestics  at  Barrytown  had  grown  grey  in  their  services  —  in 
verity,  all  things  in  the  house  were  "  of  a  piece"  except  the  visitors ;  they 
ruined  the  harmony  of  the  picture,  while  they  gave  spirit  and  variety  to  the 
colouring. 

The  month  was  June,  which  is  more  like  May  in  England,  for  our  skies  shed 
many  tears,  even  in  the  summer  time ;  as  usual,  the  coach-houses  and  stables 
were  crowded  ;  the  former  with  gigs,  "  suicides,"  and  jaunting-cars  outside  and 
in  ;  the  latter  with  all  manner  of  ponies  and  horses.  The  servant's  hall,  too,  was 
full,  and  a  "  shake-down"  had  been  ordered  even  in  Mr.  Barry's  own  study,  a 
gloomy,  dusty  place,  almost  untidy  enough  to  be  the  studio  of  a  literary  man — 
that  odious  receptacle  for  books  and  spiders ;  when  old  Mary  said  to  old  Mabby 
— long  Mabby,  as  she  was  generally  called : — 

"  Mabby,  honey,  my  drame  's  out — for,  upon  my  conscience,  if  yon,  on  the 
broken-down-looking  jingle  of  a  jaunting-car,  isn't  Miss  Spinner,  and  her  ould 
trunk  ;  and  her  ould  maid  that's  as  botherin'  a'most  as  her  divil  of  a  mistress. 
Och !  it  wasn't  for  nothing  I  dramed  of  a  blue-bottle  fly  upon  master's  nose, 
huz,  buz,  about  like  a  mill-wheel! — the  jazey ! — there  she  is,  as  yellow  as  a 
Yarrow  blossom." 

"  Why,  thin,  it 's  herself,  sure  enough,"  responded  Mabby  ;  "  and  if  she  had 
stayed  in  Dublin,  'mong  the  larned  people  she 's  always  talking  about,  none  of 
us  would  have  asked  what  kept  her.  Och  !  it 's  true  as  I  'm  standin'  here,  she 's 
got  a  new  wig." 

"New  nonsense!"  said  Molly,  "it's  only  fresh   grased.     I'll  not  go  look 


HOSPITALITY.  353 

after  her  things ;  a  month  won't  excuse  her  out  o'  this,  and  no  mortal  ever  saw 
cross  or  coin  afther  her  yet.  Where  '11  she  sleep  ?  Sure  there 's  two  in  a  bed 
all  over  the  house,  barrin'  master's.  Mabby,  count  how  many  there  is  in  now  ; 
I  '11  tell  thim  over — the  best  first : — Mr.  Altern,  his  two  hunters,  and  the  groom, 
to  say  nothin'  of  the  dogs ;  but  he  's  a  generous  jintleman,  and  the  groom  's  a 
hearty  boy." 

"  That 's  four,"  said  Mabby. 

"  Och,  you  born  sinner  !"  replied  Molly,  "  sure  it 's  not  going  to  count  the 
Christians  with  the  bastes,  ye  are1?" 

"  Tell  over  the  Christians,  thin." 

"  Well,  thin,  that 's  two.  Miss  Raymond — in  raale  goodness  she  ought  to  go 
for  two,  the  jewil !" 

"  Three." 

"  Mrs.  Croydon,  Miss  Lilly,  Miss  Livy,  the  footman  (bad  cess  to  that  fellow  ! 
— the  concealed  walk  of  him  is  parfectly  sickening,  coming  over  us  wid  his 
Dublin  airs),  and  my  lady's  maid,  to  be  sure." 

"  You  've  forgot  Mr.  Wortley." 

"  Why,  thin,  I  oughtn't  to  do  that,  for  he  never  forgets  anybody — he  's  both 
rich  and  kind;  although  he's  an  Englishman,  I'd  go  from  this  to  Bargy  on 
my  bare  hands  and  feet  to  do  a  good  turn  for  that  gintleman — there  isn't  one  in 
the  house  (of  the  visiters  I  mane)  I  'd  do  a  civility  for  so  soon,  only  Miss  Ray- 
mond. What  a  pity  it  is  that  young  lady  hasn't  some  yellow  guineas  of  her 
own  !  Mr.  Wortley  is  mighty  sweet  upon  her,  I  think.  Och,  then,  't  is  herself, 
the  darlint,  'ud  make  the  nice  wife  for  him ! — but  the  English,  the  poor  narrow- 
minded  craturs,  are  all  for  the  money,  you  know." 

"  Well,  Mabby,  any  way,  that 's  nine.  Miss  Spinner,  and  her  follower, 
sure !" 

"  Eleven." 

"  That  foolish-looking  clip  of  a  boy,  that  looks  mighty  like  a  gauger,  and  his 
comrade  that  hunts  among  the  ould  places  for  curiosities,  and  their  outlandish 
man,  Friday,  as  I  hard  Miss  Raymond  call  him." 

"  Fourteen — and  no  bad  increase  to  a  family  that  always,  when  by  itself,  sits 
down  twinty  to  dinner,  counting  the  parlour,  servant's  hall,  and  second  table, 
not  to  reckon  the  weeders  and  the  gossoons ;  to  be  sure,  the  bit  they  ate  is 
never  missed;  how  could  it,  from  a  gintleman  like  our  master? — the  blessing 
be  about  him  !  My  honoured  mistress  smiled  as  I  passed  her  in  the  corridory 
to-day ;  well,  she  is  very  ould — and  yet  so  cheerful ;  and,  though  she's  little, 
there 's  a  stateliness  about  her  that  always  made  me  the  smallest  taste  in 
life  afeard ;  but  she  was  wonderful  good  in  her  time,  and  master  dotes  down 
upon  her." 

After  this  .dialogue,  the  two  old  housemaids  departed,  mutually  determining 
to  avoid  Miss  Spinner,  who  seemed  to  be  the  terror  of  the  establishment. 

In  the  drawing  room,  the  greater  part  of  the  visiters  were  assembled,  await- 
ng  the  ringing  of  the  dressing-bell.  Lady  Florence,  as  usual,  in  her  cream- 
45 


354  HOSPITALITY. 

coloured  cushioned  chair,  reading  her  Bible ;  Miss  Raymond  sketching  flowers 
from  nature — white  and  blue  peas,  and  a  china  rose ;  Mr.  Wortley,  neither 
absolutely  sitting  nor  lounging,  on  one  of  the  old-fashioned  sofas,  was  appa- 
rently engaged  in  looking  over  a  large  rolled  map;  Mrs.  Croydon,  netting; 
Miss  Livy,  and  Miss  Letty,  the  one  attitudinising,  and  winding  a  skein  of  silk 
— which  the  other  held  so  as  to  display  her  little  white  hands  to  advantage ; 
\vhen,  at  length,  Miss  Letty  broke  silence  by  asking — 

"  La,  ma' ! — who  do  you  think  is  come  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know,  child  1"  replied  her  mother,  looking  up  from  her  net- 
ting ;  "  our  party  is  so  very  pleasant" — and  she  smiled  a  gracious  smile  all 
around — "  that  I  could  hardly  wish  it  increased." 

Mr.  Wortley  smiled  also,  but  it  was  a  different  sort  of  smile. 

"  Guess,  Livy." 

"  I  never  guess  right.     Mr. Mr. " 

"  It 's  not  a  Mr.  at  all." 

"  I  wonder  you  guess  at  Misters,"  said  ma',  with  an  aside  drawing-down  of 
t!ie  brow  ;  "  I  am  sure,  my  love,  you  care  so  little  about  gentlemen — at  least  so 
I  used  to  hear  at  the  castle,  where  my  little  Olivia  thought  fit  to  be  so  frigid ;  I 
\vonder,  child,  you  mention  Misters." 

The  young  lady,  who  was  not  as  accomplished  a  manceuvrer  as  her  mamma, 
saw  she  had  done  wrong,  although  she  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  amend  her 
error,  and  wisely  held  her  tongue. 

"  Guess,  Gertrude,"  recommenced  Miss  Letitia,  "Gertrude  Raymond,  can't 
you  guess  ? — well,  then,  I  will  tell  you — Miss  Spinner." 

"  Oh,  mercy,"  screamed  Miss  Olivia  and  her  mamma,  "  that  blue !  Oh,  Miss 
Raymond  ! — Oh,  Mr.  Wortley ! — oh !  what  will  poor  Mr.  Altern  say !  Mr. 
Barry  asked  her  once,  and  she  makes  it  a  general  invitation ! — oh,  I  shall  be 
afraid  to  open  my  lips  ! — sha'n't  you,  Gertrude'!" 

"No,"  replied  Gertrude,  laughing. 

"  Oh  !  you  are  so  wise,  Miss  Raymond,"  said  Miss  Letitia,  "  that  you  are  not 
afraid  of  anybody! — I  dare  say  you  would  not  mind  a  bit  being  in  company 
with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  or  Lady  Morgan,  or  Doctor  Johnson  !" 

"  Hush,  my  dear !"  interrupted  Mrs.  Croydon,  who,  it  must  be  confessed,  had 
enough  to  do  to  keep  the  levity  of  one  daughter,  and  the  ignorance  of  the  other, 
within  bounds;  "Hush! — you  know  Miss  Raymond  has  had  many  advantages, 
and  she  is  older  than  you  —  so  she  has  less  reason  to  fear  clever  people ; 
but  you  are  such  a  nervous  little  darling!"  —  and  mamma,  in  patting  the 
"  little  darling's"  cheek,  managed  to  give  it  (unperceived  by  the  rich  Mr. 
Wortley)  a  little  pinch,  which  said,  as  plainly  as  pinch  could  say,  "  Hold  your 
tongue !" 

"  Nobody  has  any  reason  to  fear  really  clever  people,"  said  Mr.  Wortley, 
rising  from  the  sofa,  and  joining,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  conversation,  if  so  it 
might  be  called ;  "  and  certainly  not  Miss  Raymond,"  he  continued,  bowing  to 


HOSPITALITY.  355 

Gertrude ;  who  immediately  bent  more  closely  over  her  drawing  than  was  at 
all  necessary,  for  be  it  known  that  she  had  very  good  sight. 

"  There  's  a  compliment  from  the  sober  Mr.  Wortley  !"  laughed  Olivia ;  "  who 
ever  heard  of  such  a  thing  before  ?' 

"  It  would  be  impossible  to  compliment  Miss  Olivia  Croydon,"  replied  the 
gentleman ;  "  her  beauty  is  so  universally  acknowledged  that  it  needs  not  my 
poor  commendation."  The  silly  girl  looked  pleased  at  extorted  flattery. 

Mrs.  Croydon  was  the  widow  of  a  general  officer,  and  in  twenty  years'  cam- 
paigning had  seen  a  good  deal  of  "  the  world."  She  was  a  pretty  and  a  vain 
woman.  As  her  husband  fell  in  love  with  her  at  a  garrison  ball,  and  as  she 
calculated  on  a  similar  destiny  for  her  daughters,  she  resolved  on  adding  to 
their  beauty  every  accomplishment  under  the  sun,  as  they  were  nearly  portion- 
less. What  hosts  of  masters  !  Painting  on  velvet,  japanning,  oriental  tinting, 
music,  dancing,  singing,  fencing,  riding,  French — everything  in  the  world  ex- 
cept the  solid  usefulness  of  education.  Accomplished  they  certainly  were,  but 
not  educated. 

Alas !  how  many  lovely  women  shed  tears  of  bitterness — when  the  flush  of 
youth  and  fashion  has  passed,  never  to  return — over  hours  spent  in  the  acquire- 
ment of  frivolous  accomplishments,  which,  if  occupied  in  the  improvement  of 
qualities  that  shed  a  halo  and  diffuse  a  perfume  over  home — woman's  best  and 
brightest  earthly  dominion — would  have  made  them  useful  and  beloved,  even  to 
the  end  of  their  days. 

Mrs  Croydon  "  carried  on  the  war,"  as  Mr.  Altern  used  to  say,  "  most 
famously."  She  had  good  connexions;  and,  as  her  daughters'  education,  to 
use  her  own  words,  "  was  completed  under  first-rate  masters,"  she  resolved  to 
devote  herself  to  her  friends,  and  let  her  house  in  Dublin  except  for  three 
months  in  the  year,  when  it  was  absolutely  indispensable  that  she  should  attend 
the  Castle  festivities,  "for  her  daughters'  sake — heigho !  —  she  had  no  taste, 
now,  for  the  world's  pleasures!"  —  Nevertheless,  many  suspected  that  she 
would  not  have  objected  to  become  Lady  of  Barrytown — a  thing  by  no  means 
likely,  as  Mr.  Barry  looked  upon  her  in  no  other  light  than  as  the  widow  of  his 
old  friend. 

Mr.  Wortley,  also,  was  an  object  of  much  interest  to  the  lady.  He  admired 
beauty  —  so  Miss  Olivia  was  instructed  to  play  off  her  best  looks  and  best 
airs.  He  admired  music  —  and  Miss  Letitia  sung,  until  he  was  tired,  all  the 
cavatinas  that  Mozart  and  Rossini  ever  composed.  Fine  girls  and  fine  singers 
often  go  too  far,  and  "  overshoot  the  mark ;"  they  are  perpetually  assaulting 
your  eyes  or  your  ears,  until  both  ache  even  to  weariness.  Nothing,  uncon- 
nected with  intellect,  can  please  long ;  we  soon  grow  weary  of  scentless  flowers, 
and  senseless  beauties.  At  all  events,  the  ladies  deserved  some  praise  for  their 
perseverance  in  the  siege — although  their  efforts  were  somewhat  like  those  of 
three  nautilus  storming  Gibraltar. 

Gertrude  Raymond  was  a  being  of  a  very  different  order.  Her  figure  was 
large — more  dignified  than  elegant;  her  features,  when  tranquil,  had  an  ex- 


356  HOSPITALITY. 

pression  of  hauteur;  her  brow  was  lofty  and  expanded;  her  eyes,  deep  and 
well  set;  her  skin,  nearly  olive;  her  hair  rivalled  the  raven's  wing;  her  cheek 
was,  in  general,  colourless,  except  when  her  feelings  were  excited,  and  then 
the  rich  blood  glowed  through  the  dark  surface  with  the  deep  colouring  of  the 
damask  rose,  the  eyes  brightened,  and  the  generally  placid  Gertrude  Raymond 
burst  upon  you  in  all  the  magnificence  of  beauty !  Born  of  a  noble  but  de- 
cayed family,  and  left  an  orphan  at  three  years  old,  this  high-minded  young 
woman  was  adopted  by  an  elderly  maiden  relative,  the  only  one  who  retained 
wealth  and  influence.  Gertrude,  of  course,  had  numerous  enemies  —  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  she  came  between  certain  persons  who  entertained 
certain  views  on  a  certain  property.  Wherever  there  is  a  "  long-tailed 
family,"  there  is  much  grappling  and  intrigue  to  know  who  holds  the  best 
cards.  Miss  Raymond  had,  of  course,  observed  the  various  schemes  pursued 
by  her  cousins,  but  with  no  other  emotion  than  that  of  pity.  She  pursued  a 
course  of  undeviating  rectitude,  in  opposition  to  their  petty  manoeuvrings.  Her 
aged  friend  was  a  woman  whose  temper  had  been  soured  by  much  early  mis- 
fortune ;  and  Miss  Raymond  bore  her  caprices  from  grateful,  not  from  interest- 
ed feelings. 

When  Gertrude  had  attained  her  seventeenth  year,  Miss,  or,  as  she  was 
usually  called,  Mrs.  Dorrington,  resolved  to  leave  'her  country  house,  near 
Barrytown,  and  reside  for  a  time  in  Bath.  The  principal  object  of  this  change, 
she  declared,  was  her  anxiety  that  Miss  Raymond  should  receive  all  the  advan- 
tages of  finishing-masters,  and  polished  English  society,  as  she  would  inherit 
the  greater  part  of  her  fortune.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  anything  like  the 
sensation  this  avowal  excited !  An  earthquake  was  nothing  to  it !  All  the 
cousins  to  the  fourteenth  remove,  were  in  dreadful  consternation ;  public  and 
private  committees  assembled ;  and  all  minor  jealousies  were,  for  a  time,  for- 
gotten, in  order  that  the  common  enemy — poor  Gertrude ! — might  be  dispos- 
sessed from  the  strong  hold  she  held  in  her  rich  relative's  good  opinion. 

"  It  is  quite  bad  enough,"  said  one,  "  to  have  her  put  over  all  our  heads, 
and  she  very  little  nearer  the  old  lady  than  ourselves;  but  to  leave  the  country 
and  go  off,  like  a  duchess,  to  Bath,  and  be  pampered  up,  is  too  much,  entirely." 
"It's  enough  to  break  a  heart  of  stone,"  said  another,  "to  see  her  riding 
here  and  riding  there,  in  the  carriage,  and  looking  so  mealy-mouthed  all  the 
time ;  and  her  kindness  to  the  poor  —  all  put  on  to  gain  popularity."  They 
plotted  and  plotted,  and  planned  and  planned,  but  to  no  purpose ;  go  the  old 
lady  would,  and  go  she  did.  In  vain  did  the  enemy  declare  their  deep  sorrow 
at  parting,  for  a  time,  with  their 'beloved  Mrs.  Dorrington,  and  their  "dear  Miss 
Gurry ;"  in  vain  did  they  offer,  either  singly,  or  in  a  body  (forty-five  of  them, 
at  the  very  least)  to  accompany  their  sweet  friends  to  Bath,  or  all  over  the 
world  at  any  personal  sacrifice,  rather  than  suffer  them  to  go  alone  amongst 
strangers.  Mrs.  Dorrington  thanked  them  for  their  attention,  and  abruptly 
replied  that  two  thousand  per  annum  made  a  home  of  any  hotel  in  England, 
and  friends  of  all  strangers ;  and  that  she  was  able  to  take  care  of  Gertrude, 


HOSPITALITY.  357 

and  Gertrude  was  able  to  take  care  of  her.  The  poor  of  the  neighbourhood 
sorrowed  sincerely  after  their  young  benefactress.  Mr.  Barry  knew  more  of 
Miss  Raymond's  chanties  than  any  other  person,  for  she  never  failed  to  send 
him,  from  Bath,  little  sums  of  money,  and  presents  for  her  poor  pensioners. 
Mrs.  Dorrington  was  quite  right  in  her  estimation  of  society ;  she  had  soon 
plenty  of  friends  at  Bath,  and  Miss  Raymond's  attractions  drew  many  admirers 
to  their  house. 

It  is  a  difficult  thing  to  find  an  Irish  agent  who  performs  his  duty  like  an 
English  one  ;  a  circumstance,  perhaps,  more  to  be  attributed  to  want  of  busi- 
ness-knowledge than  want  of  inclination.  Mrs.  Dorrington's  remittances  were 
delayed  beyond  all  bearing ;  and  after  "  absenteeing"  for  some  time,  she  sur- 
prised Gertrude  one  morning  by  informing  her  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind 
to  go  over  to  Ireland  for  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  and  look  into  her  own 
affairs,  that  wanted  arranging.  "It  will  astonish  them  all,"  she  continued, 
"  to  see  the  old  woman  looking  so  well ;  and,  as  you  have  so  often  promised 
Mrs.  Ackland  to  spend  a  little  time  with  her  at  Clifton,  we  will  sepa- 
rate there;  and  I  will  not  be  absent  more  than  three  weeks.  I  shall 
certainly  never  suffer  you  to  revisit  Ireland,  until  you  are  married  in  that 
sphere  of  life  which  your  birth,  and  the  property  /  have  left  you,  entitles 
you  to." 

Gertrude  had  not  permitted  any  opportunity  to  pass,  that  enabled  her  to  say 
a  few  words  in  favour  of  her  relatives :  for  self  was  never  uppermost  in  her 
mind.  But  Mrs.  Dorrington's  reserved,  and  even  austere  manners  to  her 
dearest  earthly  tie,  were  seldom  even  so  bland  as  to  permit  such  observations. 
Gertrude  accompanied  her  friend  to  Clifton,  and  saw  her  departure  with  sin- 
cere sorrow ;  she  yearned  to  behold  the  green  hills  of  her  country,  and  the  dear 
companions  of  her  childhood:  but  Mrs.  Dorrington's  fiat  was  not  to  be  dis- 
puted. The  first  letter  she  received  contained  a  long  description  of  the  bad 
management  that  had  occurred  during  her  absence,  and  her  resolve  to  set  all 
to  rights  before  she  returned  to  England.  The  next  was  filled  with  details 
of  sundry  arrangements;  and  then  came  a  long  silence.  No  letters;  post 
succeeded  post ;  no  intelligence.  At  length  came  a  letter  from  Mr.  Barry ; 
Mrs.  Dorrington,  he  informed  her,  was  seriously  ill,  and  begged  she  would 
come  over  immediately.  No  packet  sailed  that  day ;  the  next  brought 
another  account — her  friend  was  dead.  The  shock  was  more  than  she  could 
bear;  and,  when  she  arose  from  a  couch  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  several 
letters  were  presented  to  her  by  the  lady  of  the  house.  The  two  principal 
were — one  from  her  old  and  steady  friend,  Mr.  Barry,  entreating,  if  she  knew 
of  the  existence  of  a  will,  to  see  to  it  at  once,  as  the  heir-at-law  had  already 
taken  possession  of  the  property,  on  the  presumption  that  no  document  existed 
leaving  any  provision  at  all  for  her: — the  other,  from  the  heir  himself,  desiring 
that  all  the  letters,  papers,  and  personal  property  of  "  the  late  Miss  Dorrington, 
(how  that  cold  sentence  wounded!)  should  be  forthwith  delivered  to  Mr. 


358  HOSPITALITY. 

Scrapthorne,  Attorney-at-law,  Back  Lane,  Bristol;  who  was  empowered 
to  take  possession  of  the  same. 

"From,  Madam,  yours, 

"  THOMAS  DORRINGTON." 

The  very  abject,  who  but  six  months  before  had  requested  "  the  always  kind 
interference  of  his  friend  (whom  he  was  proud  to  call  relative),  Miss  Raymond. 
with  that  most  respected  lady,  Mrs.  Dorrington,  to  beg  he  might  have  forty 
acres  of  the  .upper  farm  now  out  of  lease,  on  fair  terms,  and  a  loan  of  thirty 
pounds  to  help  to  stock  it. 

"  From  your  humble  servant  to  command, 
"  And  most  faithful  cousin, 

"  THOMAS  DORRINGTON." 

Poor  Gertrude!  the  ingratitude  manifested  by  the  last  epistle — for  she  had 
procured  the  man  sixty  pounds,  and  obtained  his  other  request — aroused  all  her 
energies,  and  diligent  search  was  made  for  a  will ;  but  no  document,  even  al- 
luding to  one,  could  be  discovered.  Everybody  felt  for  "poor  Miss  Raymond." 
"  Such  a  melancholy  change  !"  "Pity  she  was  not  married  before!"  "  Hard 
fate  !"  "  Very  distressing  !"  Some  asked  her  "  to  spend  a  few  days  until  she 
fixed  upon  her  future  plans ;"  others  extended  their  invitation  to  an  entire 
month ;  but  Lady  Florence  Barry,  albeit  unused  to  letter- writing,  added  the 
following  postscript  to  her  son's  letter,  which  was  despatched  when  all  hopes 
of  finding  a  will  were  abandoned  : — "  I  am  old,  Gertrude  ;  my  hand  trembles, 
and  my  eyes  are  dim ;  but  my  heart  is  warm,  warmer  towards  you  now  than 
in  your  sunnier  days.  Come  to  us — be  to  us  as  a  child,  and  your  society  will 
bestow  a  blessing  which  we  will  endeavour  to  repay." 

Gertrude's  reply  to  this  generous  offer  was  at  once  simple  and  dignified. 

"  It  is  not,"  she  said,  "  that  I  do  not  value  your  kindness,  dear  and  beloved 
friends,  above  every  earthly  blessing,  but  I  cannot  live  dependent  even  on  you. 

I  have  accepted  a  situation  as  governess  in  Lady  B 's  family,  and  I  will 

endeavour  to  do  my  duty  in  that  sphere  of  life  unto  which  it  hath  pleased  God 
to  call  me.  Believe  me,  the  change  must  serve;  I  almost  think  I  was  too 
uplifted.  I  have  now  put  my  trust  in  God,  who  will  do  what  seemeth  best 
unto  him.  To-morrow  I  leave  this  place,  its  false  and  glittering  friends,  to 
enter  on  my  new  duties  in  London.  I  am  promised  a  month's  holiday,  and  if  I 
can  summon  fortitude  to  visit  Ireland,  I  will  see  you  then.  I  hear  the  new  pos- 
sessor has  sold  all  off,  even  the  ornaments  of  the  old  mansion; — that  is  heart- 
rending. But,  worst  of  all,  my  poor  pensioners ! — however,  I  shall  be  able  to 
spare  them  something  out  of  my  earnings — my  earnings;  but  let  me  not  be  un- 
thankful ;  I  remember,  with  gratitude,  that  my  education  has  saved  me  from  the 
bitterness  of  dependence" 

In  a  decent,  solitary  cabin,  on  the  Dorrington  estate,  resided  nurse  Keefe, 
so  called  from  having  "  fostered"  Miss  Raymond,  She  was  considered  by  her 


HOSPITALITY.  359 

neighbours  "  a  remarkable  well-bred,  dacent  woman ;"  and,  when  Gertrude 
left  Ireland,  the  faithful  creature  would  have  accompanied  "  her  foster  child," 
had  it  not  been  that  her  husband  was  in  ill  health,  and  demanded  all  her  atten- 
tion; he  died  about  six  weeks  before  Mrs.  Dorrington,  but  nurse  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  return  with  the  lady  to  England ;  her  sudden  death,  of  course, 
prevented  it,  and  nurse  Keefe  awaited  "  her  dear  child's  coming  home  to  take 
possession  of  her  own ;"  mourned  for  the  dead,  and  rejoiced  in  her  young 
lady's  prospects  almost  at  the  same  moment.  When  she  heard  that  the  pro- 
perty was  going  into  other  hands,  nothing  could  exceed  her  grief;  she  was 
almost  frantic,  and  abused  the  heir-at-law  in  no  measured  terms,  declaring  that 
he  had  made  away  with  the  will,  and  all  were  thieves  and  rogues.  Mr.  Barry 
assured  her  he  was  using  his  exertions  to  induce  Miss  Raymond  to  reside  with 
his  mother;  and  that  information  afforded  her  some  little  comfort;  but  when 
she  found  that  her  nursling  was  going  as  governess  to  a  family,  the  poor 
creature's  misery  was  truly  distressing.  She  returned  to  her  cottage  with  a 
breaking  heart,  and  did  not  even  go  to  Barrytown  to  inquire  after  "  Miss 
Gurry"  for  three  weeks.  When  she  again  made  her  appearance  there,  she 
astounded  .Mr.  Barry  with  the  information  that  she  had  "  canted  all  her  bits  o' 
things,"  had  drawn  what  money  she  had  saved  up  in  the  bank  out  of  it,  given 
up  her  farm,  and  was  absolutely  setting  off  to  London  to  see  "  her  child," 
as  she  generally  called  her.  "  I  'm  not  going  to  be  a  burthen,  sir,"  she  said 
to  Mr.  Barry,  when  he  pointed  out  to  the  affectionate  creature,  the  folly  of  her 
journey..  "  I  have  as  good  as  a  hundred-and-twinty  pounds,  solid  gould  and 
silver,  that 's  not  mine,  but  hers,  now  she  happens  to  want  it — more 's  the  pity  ! 
Sure  it  was  by  sarving  her  I  got  it,  which  makes  it  hers  whin  she  's  distressed 
(that  I  should  live  to  see  it !)  if  not  in  law,  anyhow  in  justice,  which  is  the 
best  law,  without  any  manner  of  doubt  So  I  '11  jist  take  it  her  myself,  to  save 
the  postage ;  and  I  'm  stout  and  strong,  and  able  to  get  up  fine  linen,  and  clear- 
starch, with  any  she  in  the  kingdom  of  England ;  and  sure  she  '11  be  able  to  get 
me  plinty  of  work ;  and  that  trifle  can  lay  in  the  London  Bank  for  her,  whin 
she  wants  any  little  thing,  as  sure  she  must ;  and  I  '11  be  near  her  to  keep  her 
from  being  put  upon,  by  them  English.  And,  God  be  praised  I  'm  able  to  stand 
tip  for  her  still,  and  make  her  sensible  of  the  honour  she 's  doing  them  by  stay- 
ing there  at  all.  And  now  my  blessing,  and  the  blessing  of  the  poor  be  about 
yer  honour  !  You  '11  not  see  me  until  I  can't  be  of  any  use  to  Miss  Raymond 
— the  angel !" 

So  nurse  Keefe  journeyed  to  London ;  and,  at  last,  found  herself  at  Hyde 
Park  Corner,  quite  bewildered  by  the  crowd  and  noise,  and  endeavouring  lo 
make  her  way  to  Grosvenor  Place.  Her  quaint  appearance  attracted  attention, 
as  she  passed  along.  Short  black  silk  cloak — white  dimity  petticoat — shoes 
and  silver  buckles — small  black  "  mode"  bonnet,  hardly  shading  her  round  good- 
natured  face,  were  singular  gear,  even  in  London ;  and  her  rich  brogue  when- 

.  ever  she  inquired,  "  if  any  one  could   tell  her  where  Lady  B 's  and  her 

young  lady's  house,  was,  in  Grosvenor-place,"  caused  a  universal  laugh,  which 


360  HOSPITALITY. 

she  did  not  at  all  relish.  She  stood  at  the  corner  opposite  Hyde  Park,  gazing 
wildly  about,  resolved  not  to  ask  any  more  questions,  when  a  gentleman  good- 
naturedly  inquired,  "  if  she  was  looking  for  any  particular  house." 

"Is  it  looking! — troth,  and  I  am,  sir,  till  I'm  blind  and  stupid,  and  can  see 
nothing — God  help  me ! — with  the  noise  and  the  people,  skrimitching  and  fight- 
ing; they  may  hould  their  tongues  about  the  wild  Irish ;  the  English  here,  I  'm 
sure,  are  all  mad ;  but  as  ye  're  so  kind,  and,  no  doubt,  knowledgeable,  may-be 

you  could  tell  me  the  way  to  one  Lady  B 's,  and  my  young  lady's,  who 

lives  somewhere  hereabouts  in  Grosvenor-place." 

"  Lady  B 's !"  repeated  the  stranger ;  "  I  am  going  there,  and  you  may 

follow  me,  if  you  please."  The  gentleman  walked  on,  and  the  delighted  nurse 
breathlessly  addressed  him  : — 

"  Ah,  then,  sir,  every  joy  in  heaven  to  ye!  —  and  sure  ye  know  my  young 
lady?" 

"  I  have  not  that  pleasure." 

"  I  ax  yer  pardon,  but  ye  said  ye  knew  Lady  B ." 

«  I  do." 

"  Well,  yer  honour,  sure  my  young  lady  stops  with  her." 

"  No  young  lady,  that  I  know  of,  lives  there,  except — oh,  I  have  heard  of  a 
young  Irish  lady,  a  governess,  I  believe;  but,  of  course,  she  is  not  seen." 

"  Not  seen !"  repeated  nurse,  who  had  no  idea  that  Miss  Raymond  could  be 
excluded  from  any  society:  "  is  she  sick,  sir?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of;  but  I  suppose  she  is  in  the  nursery,  or  study,  or  some- 
where with  the  children." 

This  information  could  not  be  borne  silently,  and  she  told  the  gentleman  the 
history  of  her  "  young  lady,"  with  so  much  earnestness,  that,  although  he  was 
much  interested,  he  heartily  wished  himself  housed ;  for  nurse  Keefe's  eloquence 

attracted  a  crowd.  As  they  ascended  the  steps  of  Lady  B 's  residence, 

Gertrude  and  her  pupils  were  descending.  The  poor  creature  sprang  forward, 
fell  on  her  knees,  and  grasped  Miss  Raymond's  dress,  unable,  fortunately, 
from  her  violent  agitation,  to  utter  a  sentence.  The  face  of  an  old  friend  is 
more  delightful  than  sunshine  in  winter.  Gertrude  raised  the  aged  woman  to 
her  bosom  ;  and,  heedless  of  the  presence  of  strangers,  burst  into  tears.  When, 
after  the  lapse  of  an  hour,  nurse  Keefe  and  Miss  Raymond  were  seated  in  the 
study  appropriated  to  Gertrude's  use,  the  faithful  creature  opened  her  simple 
plan  to  her  foster-child,  and  endeavoured  to  impress  on  her  mind  that  the 
money  she  had  brought,  carefully  wrapped  in  an  old  stocking,  belonged  to 
Gertrude.  Much  did  the  good  nurse  regret  that  she  could  not  make  "  her 
darlint"  understand  this;  and  Miss  Raymond,  in  her  turn,  laboured  as  fruit- 
lessly to  convince  her  that  she  was  perfectly  happy,  and  treated  quite  as  she 
ought  to  be. 

"  I  can't  believe  it — I  can't  believe  it,  Miss,  machree ! — How  could  I,  whin 
that  fine-spoken  young  gentleman  tould  me  he  never  set  eyes  upon  you, 
although  he  came  often  to  the  house?  D'ye  think  I've  no  sense? — or  that 


HOSPITALITY.  361 

I  'm  out  an'  out  a  fool  ? — Sure,  it 's  well  I  remimber,  after  yer  angel  of  a  mo- 
ther died,  whin  ye  came  to  be  Mrs.  Dorrington's  child  (who  had  no  born  child, 
on  account  she  was  an  ould  maid),  that  I  used  to  have  to  bring  ye  into  the 
grand  parlour  as  good  as  tin  times  a  day,  in  order  that  they  might  all  admire 
yer  beauty ;  and  lords  and  ladies,  and  even  mimbers  of  Parliament,  fighting  like 
cat  an'  dog  for  the  first  kiss,  and  I  fighting  to  keep  them  from  dragging  the 
head  off  o'  ye.  And  now  to  be  in  a  bit  of  an  English  lady's  family,  as  a  sort 
of  a — Oh  !  ullagone  !  ullagone  ! — my  poor  ould  heart  'ill  split !" 

Gertrude  had  some  difficulty  in  pacifying  her;  convincing  was  out  of  the 
question.  "Well,  may-be  so,  my  dear.  Happy! — I  can't  understand  it ;  may- 
be so !" 

The  next  thing  was  to  provide  a  lodging  for  nurse  Keefe  ;  and,  as  she  soon 
placed  what  she  called  Miss  Raymond's  "  trifle  o'  money"  in  a  banker's  hands, 
she  became  anxious  for  employment.  Lady  B.,  who  was  really  kind  and 
amiable,  was  highly  pleased  with  the  poor  woman's  generous  feelings,  and,  in 
Jess  than  a  month,  the  good  nurse  had  more  clearstarching,  and  "  fine-plaiting" 
than  she  could  manage.  Thus,  to  use  her  own  words,  "  the  money  powered 
in  upon  her."  She  visited  Gertrude  once  or  twice  a  week,  and  never  came 
empty-handed;  nuts,  oranges,  and  cakes,  were  her  general  presents;  but  some- 
times she  added  pieces  of  gay  riband,  and  two  or  three  yards  of  lace.  The 
person  who  gave  her  most  employment,  and  paid  her  best,  was  her  kind  con- 
ductor when  she  first  visited  Grosvenor-place.  The  gentleman  knew  some- 
thing of  the  neighbourhood  where  Miss  Raymond  had  resided,  for  Mr.  Barry 
and  his  father  had  been  college  friends  at  Oxford,  and  he  often  chatted  with 
nurse  Keefe  when  she  brought  home  shirts  and  cravats  ("  that  would  bate  the 
snow  for  whiteness")  to  his  lodgings  in  St.  James's-street,  and  highly  gratified 
her  by  the  information  that,  as  he  occasionally  joined  Lady  B.'s  family  circle, — 
he  had  sometimes  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss  Raymond.  She  was  a  little 
mortified  that  he  did  not  praise  her  young  lady,  as  she  thought  everybody 
ought  to  do,  but  consoled  herself  by  muttering,  as  she  went  home — "  Well,  it 's 
mighty  quare,  but  these  Englishmen  are  afeard  of  wearing  out  their  tongues ; 
who  knows,  for  all  that,  but,  may-be,  he  's  like  the  countryman's  goose,  that 
thought  all  the  more  for  not  spaking." 

Mr.  Wortley,  for  it  was  the  self-same  gentleman,  did  think  much  on  every 
subject,  but  latterly,  more  of  Gertrude  than  of  any  other;  he  had  not  seen  her 
often,  but  he  had  heard  of  her  a  great  deal.  Lady  B.  spoke  of  Miss  Raymond 
in  the  highest  terms,  and  the  children  manifested  the  strongest  attachment 
towards  their  "  dear,  kind  governess."  "  She  is  always  so  dignified  and  cor- 
rect," said  her  ladyship  ;  "  and  is  never  out  of  temper,"  said  little  Jessica ;  "  and 
although  she  is  sometimes  melancholy,"  added  Miss  Clorinda,  the  eldest  of  the 
children,  "  which  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  because  once  she  had  almost — 
almost  as  much  money  as  mamma,  yet  she  smiles  away  her  sorrows  so  sweetly 
and  sings  for  us  of  an  evening,  as  well — indeed,  quite  as  well — as  Miss  Ste- 
phens, and  very  like  her,  too,  the  ballads  that  make  one  weep."  "  Dear  mam- 
46 


362  HOSPITALITY. 

ma,"  said  Charles,  a  rosy  boy  of  seven  years  old,  "  do  coax  Miss  Raymond 
to  drink  tea  in  the  drawing-room  with  us  to-night ;  she  will  never  come  when 
there's  company;  but  Mr.  Wortley,  you  know,  is  an  old  friend,  and  nobody; 
— and  then  she  will  sing  for  us ;  —  do,  mamma."  The  request  was  readily 
granted,  and  he  ran  off  with  a  message  from  mamma,  begging  Miss  Raymond 
would  that  evening  take  tea  in  the  drawing-room.  He  stopped  at  the  door, 
and  said  playfully  to  Mr.  Wortley,  who  had  been  some  time  in  the  room, 
"  Mind,  I  heard  you  say  to  papa,  the  other  day,  that  you  wanted  a  wife ; 
—  now,  you  shan't  have  my  Miss  Raymond,  for  she  shall  be  my  wife,  when 
I  'm  a  man." 

"  Dignified  and  correct — never  out  of  temper — with  much  reason  to  be  sor- 
rowful, and  yet  chasing  it  away,  even  to  the  gratifying  of  childhood ;  and  sing- 
ing— I  never,  never  heard  any  woman  sing  with  half  so  much  feeling.  What 
an  admirable  wife  she  would  make !"  So  soliloquised  Mr.  Wortley,  when 
he  left  the  family  party  one  evening;  and,  of  course,  came  to  the  resolution 
of  knowing  more  of  this  "  very  interesting  and  superior  woman."  That, 
however,  was  not  easily  accomplished  :  the  education  of  Lady  B.'s  children 
occupied  all  Gertrude's  time ;  and  even  if  the  duties  of  her  situation  had  not 
prevented  it,  she  had  so  recently  smarted  from  fashionable  fickleness,  that  she 
was  not  at  all  inclined  to  stake  even  an  hour's  happiness  upon  it  again.  When 
Mr.  Wortley  met  her,  his  very  anxiety  to  render  himself  agreeable  made  him 
awkward.  He  experienced,  however,  some  alarm,  when  he  found  that  Ger- 
trude Raymond  was  going  to  spend  two  entire  months  at  Barrytown,  during 
Lady  B.'s  intended  tour  on  the  Continent ;  and  thought  he  would  speak  to  her 
at  once  as  well  as  he  could ;  but  a  little  reflection  convinced  him  that  this 
would  be  the  most  effectual  way  to  obtain  a  decided  refusal,  as  he  could  have 
yet  made  no  progress  in  her  affections,  and  he  knew  her  mind  was  too  noble  to 
calculate  merely  upon  worldly  advantages  in  a  matrimonial  connexion.  After 
much  pro  and  con,  he  resolved  to  speak  to  Lady  B.  on  the  subject,  and, 
without  waiting  for  his  curricle,  walked  quickly  towards  Grosvenor-place. 
When  he  arrived,  he  was  informed  that  Miss  Raymond,  attended  by  nurse 
Keefe  and  Lady  B.'s  own  footman,  had  just  departed  for  Ireland ;  and  that 
Lady  B.  was  completing  her  arrangements  previous  to  her  Continental  tour. 
He  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  visit  Ireland.  "Every  man  of  liberal  feeling 
should  make  the  tour  of  the  sister  Isle  —  he  wondered  he  had  never  thought 
of  it  before ;  the  Lakes  of  Killarney  were  celebrated  all  over  the  world — the 
Giant's  Causeway,  too,  one  of  the  most  wonderful  works  of  nature — the  County 
Wicklow — the  Vale  of  Avoca — (he  repeated  Moore's  lines  to  the  beautiful 
valley,  with  absolute  enthusiasm).  Besides,  there  was  his  father's  old  college 
friend,  Mr.  Barry;  he  had  seen  him  in  England  during  his  parent's  lifetime, 
and  knew  he  would  be  so  glad  to  receive  him — dear  old  gentleman  ! — how 
delightful  to  talk  with  him  of  his  father !  It  was,  really,  very  ungrateful  not 
to  have  visited  him  before;  and,  now  that  London  was  quite  empty,  (the  car- 
riages were  jostling  at  every  corner),  he  must  go  to  the  country — and  he  would 


HOSPITALITY.  363 

go  to  Ireland."  Accordingly  he  wrote  immediately  to  Mr.  Barry,  informed 
him  of  his  anxiety  to  pay  his  respects  to  his  father's  old  friend,  and  explore 
the  beauties  of  a  country  he  had  heard  so  much  of;  hoped  he  should  not 
inconvenience  Mr.  B. — would  await  his  answer  at  Milford ;  and  concluded  by 
saying  that  he  earnestly  requested  he  would  not  mention  his  intended  visit  to 
any  one,  except  Lady  Florence,  as  he  had  a  particular  —  very  particular 
reason,  indeed  —  for  not  wishing  it  mentioned,  which  he  would  hereafter 
explain. 

There  is  a  sort  of  freemasonry  in  goodness,  that  none  but  the  good  can 
understand.  Mr.  Barry,  very  soon  after  Mr.  Wortley's  arrival,  both  knew  and 
approved  of  his  manly  and  disinterested  attachment  to  his  young  friend ;  sin- 
cerely rejoiced  at  the  prospect  of  wealth  and  happiness  that  was  brightening 
before  her ;  and  only  dreaded  lest  Gertruders  high  feelings  would  prevent  her 
being  dependant  (as  she  would  call  it)  even  on  a  husband.  The  manoeuvrings 
of  Mrs.  C.  and  Co.  entertained  him  much;  and,  after  dinner,  on  the  evening 
of  the  day  that  the  "  blue  lady"  arrived,  as  the  gentlemen  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  Mr.  Barry  and  Mr.  Wortley  paused,  and  whispered  to  each  other,  the 
same  words,  "  How  superior  is  she  to  all  around  her !"  Certainly  the  contrast 
between  Gertrude  and  Miss  Spinner  was  very  ludicrous ; — the  real  information 
of  the  one,  and  assumed  learning  of  the  other,  reminded  one  of  Florian's  beau- 
tiful fable,  Le  Rossignol  et  le  Prince  : 

"  Les  sots  savent  tous  se  produire ; 
Le  merite  se  cache,  il  faut  Taller  trouver." 

One  was  as  presuming  as  the  sparrows;  the  other  as  retiring  as  the 
nightingale. 

"Now,  re-e-ly,"  commenced  the  learned  lady,  "  now,  re-e-ly  (she  was  ambi- 
tious of  the  English  accent)  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come  ;  gentlemen,  I  contest 
for  woman's  talent,  but  I  lowly  bend  to  the  magnificent  intellect  of  the  crea- 
tion's lords — although  it  must  be  confessed,  you  are  not  '  melting  as  a  lover's 
prayer,'  as  Hughes  beautifully  expresses  it;  and  though,  sometimes,  *  ye  are 
more  changeable  than  Proteus,'  yet  are  ye  '  glorious  as  Mars,'  and  '  luminous 
as  stars!'  There,"  said  the  lady,  making  a  low  courtesy,  "is  rhyme  and 
reason,  which  I  consider  the  perfection  of  oratory !" 

Miss  Livy  and  Miss  Letty  laughed ;  Gertrude  smiled,  and  the  gentlemen 
could  scarcely,  keep  their  countenances  in  proper  form.  Mr.  Altern,  the 
rattling  fox-hunter,  complimented  the  lady  on  her  eloquence,  which  was,  he 
said,  "  as  good  as  a  play.;"  and  seated  himself  by  her  side,  to  draw  her  out; — 
there  was  little  occasion  for  it,  for  when  once  a  woman  gets  a  taste  for  display, 
it  is  like  the  overflowing  of  the  Nile,  which  no  earthly  barrier  can  withstand  ; 
I  fear  me,  however,  it  does  not  fertilize  like  that  river.  When  the  tea  equipage 
was  removed,  Miss  Spinner  proposed,  "  that  they  should  busy  themselves  in 
some  intellectual  exercise.  I  am  sure,"  she  continued,  "  Miss  Raymond,  who 
has  so  long  enjoyed  the  enlightening  beams  of  London  society,  will  second  this 


364 


HOSPITALITY. 


motion ;  and,  indeed,  I  wished  particularly  to  ask  her,  if  she  had  seen  any  of 
the  celebrated  characters — the  lions  of  the  day?" 

"  Yes,  I  have,  I  believe,  seen  many  of  them." 

"  Oh,  how  I  envy  you !  Perhaps  you  attended  the  celebrated  Dr.  Towns- 
end's  lectures,  on  the  use  and  abuse  of  the  steam-engine;  —  of  course  you 
recollect  Darwin's  beautiful  lines  : — 

'  Fresh,  through  a  thousand  pipes,  the  wave  distils, 
And  thirsty  cities  drink  the  exuberant  rills.'  " 

Gertrude  confessed  she  had  not  attended  the  lectures. 

"What  a  pity!  I  think  I  saw  your  daughters,  Mrs.  Croydon,  in  that 
sweet  fellow's  botanical  studio,  at  the  Rotunda  —  I  forget  his  name  —  Rose 
—  Rosacynth!  —  do  you  recollect  his  delightful,  and  exquisitely  touching, 
description  of  the  papilionaceous  tribe  1  —  and  his  hortus  siccus — so  talented 
and  classical!  —  to  poetize  the  loves  of  the  flowers  like  Moore's  loves  of 
the  angels!" 

"  Oh,  yes !"  replied  both  young  ladies,  "  we  all  remember  Mr.  Rosacynth ; 
Ave  attended  his  lectures,  and  all  such  things,  before  our  education  was  finished. 
I  suppose,  Gertrude,  you  will  make  Lady  B.'s  daughters,  your  pupils,  do  so, 
ivhen  they  are  old  enough?" 

"  Young  ladies,"  replied  Mr.  Barry,  quietly,  "  I  believe  Miss  Raymond 
•will  soon  devote  her  exclusive  attention  to  one  pupil — at  least,  I  know  one  who 
\vould  give — " 

"Dear  sir,"  said  poor  Gertrude,  springing  up,  "do,  do  hold  —  peace,  for 
pity's  sake !'" 

"  Bless  me,  what 's  the  matter  ?"  inquired  old  Lady  Florence ;  the  Croydons 
exchanged  glances;  Mr.  Wortley  stooped  to  look  for  his  handkerchief,  which 
•was  in  his  hand ;  and  Mr.  Altern  gave  a  long  whew.  The  silence  showed 
symptoms  of  continuance,  which,  nevertheless,  the  foxhunter  at  length  broke. 
'•  I  hope  you  don't  patronise  the  three  B's  that  preside  over  conversazioni?" 

"  What  are  they  ?"  laughed  Mr.  Barry. 

"  Blue  stockings,  blue  milk,  and  blue  looks." 

"  Sir— Mr.  Altern,"  said  Miss  Spinner,  indignantly,  "  I  am  sorry  for  you  ! 
You  have  no  more  taste  for  the  beauties  of  literature — to  think  or  speak  so,  be- 
comes a  Goth,  a  Vandal  or — a  foxhunter !" 

"Whew! — dear  madam,  don't  plunge  so;  a  joke's  a  joke— though,  'faith, 
there 's  some  truth  in  it.  I  was  inveigled,  once,  to  one  of  their  conversazioni ; 
\\hat  a  pucker  they  were  in  ! — worse  than  a  pack  of  hounds  in  full  cry,  but  not 
half  the  spirit  or  harmony,  for  they  were  all  after  different  game:  some  shoot- 
ing, some  coursing,  some  angling,  some  (old  ones  too)  ogling — they  seemed  to 
me  to  neglect  no  sort  of  business,  except  eating ;  and  that  was  not  their  fault, 
for  they  had  nothing  to  eat,  save  trumpery  biscuits  and  half-starved  sandwiches ; 
my  Sly  would  swallow  plates  and  all,  in  a  moment — coffee  and  eau  sucres,  and 


HOSPITALITY.  365 

such  poison ! — oh,  what  is  it  to  a  baron  of  beef  and  a  foaming  tankard,  or  a 
smoking  jug  of  whiskey-punch  t" 

"  But,  sir,"  said  Gertrude,  kindly,  for  she  saw  Miss  Spinner  was  annoyed, 
"  surely  people  do  not  assemble  merely  to  eat  and  drink ;  as  intellectual  beings, 
we  have  higher  objects  in  society,  and " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,"  said  the  honest,  but  unpolished  'squire,  "  you  are  much 
too  pretty  for  one  of  the  sisterhood." 

"Sir,  I  thank  you,"  and  Miss  Spinner  arose  and  courtesied  low — very  low — 
to  Mr.  Altern. 

"  Miss  Olivia,"  said  Mr.  Wortley,  eager  to  avert  the  coming  storm,  "  do, 
pray,  favour  us  with  that  beautiful  cavatina  of  Rossini's — we  all  like  music." 

Miss  Livy  did  not  need  a  second  request ;  and  for  some  time  she  was  lis- 
tened to  with  much  attention.  At  last,  Miss  Spinner  became  tired  of  silence, 

and,  gliding  up  to  Mr.  Barry,  said,  "  that  as  Mr. (she  forgot  the  name) 

had  gone  off  that  morning  in  search  of  Roman  pavements,  and  broken  vessels, 
pipes,  and  interesting  relics  of  the  olden  time,  and  had  not  yet  returned  to 
illumine  their  orbit  by  his  brilliant  discoveries,  she  had  a  few  little  curiosities  in 
her  bureau,  up  stairs,  that  might  afford  amusement — she  would  bring  them 
down  while  they  were  singing."  The  lady  soon  imported  various  packages, 
boxes,  and  bags,  placed  them  on  the  sofa,  piled  up  on  her  right  hand  and  on 
her  left,  and  looked  not  unlike  a  venerable  mummy  encompassed  by  Egyptian 
relics.  She  exhibited  her  specimens  of  conchology ;  mineralogy ;  her  little 
electrifying  machine  ;  her  figure  from  the  inquisition  at  Goa ;  a  snuff-box  that 
Buonaparte  had — looked  at ;  a  lock  of  hair,  cut  from  the  tail  of  Marie  Antoi- 
nette's favourite  lap-dog;  a  bit  of  Pope's  willow;  a  leaf  of  Shakspeare's  mul- 
berry tree ;  a  petrified  toe  of  St.  Peter,  which  was  classically  labelled — "Digit 
de  Sancto  Pietro!" — and  many  other  equally  valuable  relics.  The  young  people 
grouped  around  her,  and  she  was  unusually  elaborate  and  eloquent  in  her  de- 
scriptions ;  nay,  she  even  repeated  an  extemporaneous  poem  she  had  made  upon 
herself  on  a  misty  morning. 

Gertrude  and  Mr.  Wortley  were  standing  near  each  other,  when  Miss  Spin- 
ner pulled  various  old-fashioned  boxes  from  a  yellow  silk  bag.  "  I  purchased 
these  very  interesting  relics  of  antiquity  at  a  receptacle  for  old  furniture — vulgo, 
a  broker's  shop;  it  is  very  obscure;  I  fancy  there  is  part  of  this  strange-looking 
box  unopened,  it  appears  so  thick  and  clumsy — perhaps  the  fastening  is  con- 
cealed by  some  spring ;  it  has  hitherto  baffled  my  utmost  ingenuity,  and  I 
hardly  thought  the  man  would  sell  it  without  examination." 

"  I  ought  to  know  it,"  said  Gertrude ;  "  it  belonged,  I  am  certain,  to  my  dear 
old  friend's  cabinet."  She  took  it,  and  touched  a  spring  that  was  concealed 
by  a  small  stud ;  the  bottom  opened,  and  discovered,  tightly  pressed  in,  a  folded 
parchment. 

Mr.  Barry  seized  it,  hastily  unfastened  the  riband  which  tied  it,  and  ex- 
claimed, "  Gracious  Providence  !— the  Will !— the  Will !— the  Will !  She  was 
neither  forgetful  nor  unjust  Mr.  Wortley,  I  give  you  joy; — she'll  have  you 


366  HOSPITALITY. 

now,  because  she'll  be  almost  as  rich  as  yourself;  joy — joy!  Oh,  I'm  so 
happy  ! — quite  right ! — '  all  my  personal  and  estated  property  too,' — my  dear 
Miss  Spinner,  you  are  the  sweetest  being  on  earth — '  to  Gertrude  Raymond ' 
— just  as  it  should  be  !" 

"Dear  —  dearest  Gertrude!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Wortley;  but  Gertrude  had 
fainted  on  his  shoulder;  and  salts,  eau-de-luce,  de  Cologne,  de  Millefleurs,  were 
abundantly  supplied  by  the  young  ladies,  who  hardly  understood  the  matter, 
but  knew  that  all  was  in  delightful  bustle,  or,  as  Miss  Spinner  said,  "  soft  confu- 
sion— rosy  terror !" 

When  Gertrude  had  recovered,  and  time  was  afforded  for  deliberate  inves- 
tigation, Mr.  Barry  read  the  will  aloud.  Mrs.  Dorrington  had  left  her  entire 
property  to  Miss  Raymond,  subject  to  some  life  annuities,  either  to  old  and  faith- 
ful servants,  or  poor  relatives.  Amongst  other  paragraphs  contained  in  it  was 
the  following : — "  And  whereas,  I  have  good  and  substantial  reason  for  believing 
that  Thomas  Dorrington  (who  is,  unfortunately,  by  the  will  of  God,  my  nearest 
relative)  is  a  double-dealing  craven  and  a  heartless  man ;  seeing  that  like  the 
fabled  Janus  he  carries  two  faces,  I  leave  him  to  be  provided  for  by  Gertrude 
Raymond,  convinced  that  she,  of  her  generosity,  will  do  more  for  him,  in  con- 
sideration of  his  family,  than  my  love  of  justice  would  permit  me,  knowing  his 
duplicity  as  I  do; — I  leave  him  to  her  mercy." 

"  It  is  singular,"  observed  Mr.  Barry,  "  that  my  old  friend  should  so  studiously 
have  concealed  all  information  on  the  subject  of  her  will  from  us ;  to  execute 
it  with  her  own  hand,  and  never  mention  its  existence.  She  was  a  good  lawyer, 
however,  for  it  is  duly  witnessed ;  but  where  shall  we  find  those  people  ? — this 
document  has  been  nearly  four  years  in  existence.  '  Patrick  Muller,'  the  old 
butler,  he  is  dead;  'Frank  Hayward,' and  'Jane  Miller,'  have  you  any  idea 
where  they  are,  Gertrude  ?" 

"  Frank  Hayward  married  Jane  immediately  on  our  going  to  Bath,  and  my 
dear  relative,  you  know,  sir,  never  retained  married  servants ;  but  she  procured 
them  confidential  situations  in  Sir  Thomas  Harrowby's  family.  They  have  been 
ever  since  on  the  Continent ;  I  believe  they  are  now  at  Rome." 

"  How  very  fortunate,"  said  Miss  Spinner,  "  that  I  happened  to  purchase  the 
box  !  My  dear  Miss  Raymond,  I  give  you  much  joy." 

"  Oh,  so  do  we  all !"  said  Mrs.  Croydon  ;  somewhat  awkwardly,  however,  for 
Mr.  Wortley's  exclamation  had  convinced  her  that  her  daughters'  beauty  and 
accomplishments  had  been  displayed  in  vain ;  and  that,  even  when  portionless, 
and  a  governess,  Gertrude  Raymond,  notwithstanding  her  want  of  tact,  ad- 
vanced age  (twenty-two),  and  what  Mrs.  C.  always  termed  "  very  plain  appear- 
ance," had  conquered,  what  she  considered,  "  a  man  worth  looking  after,"  be- 
cause he  had  five  thousand  a  year ! 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Lady  Florence,  who,  by  the  assistance  of  her  ear-trumpet, 
heard  and  understood  all  that  had  occurred  —  "my  dear  Gertrude,  your  old 
friend  rejoices  for  you.  Nearly  a  century  has  passed  over  this  grey  head,  and 


HOSPITALITY.  367 

those  who  number  only  half  my  days,  must  experience  much  of  joy  and  sorrow  ; 
yet  this  is  one  of  the  happiest  hours  I  have  ever  known.  I  sorrowed,  bitterly 
sorrowed,  when  you,  of  ancient  family,  and  mind  capable  of  adding  lustre  to  the 
highest  rank,  became  a  labourer  for  independence.  Yet,  Gertrude,  I  loved  you 
more  and  more ;  for  even  the  pittance  you  worked  for,  you  divided  with  the 
poor  and  the  afflicted.  Nay,  child,  I  will  speak  ;  I  do  not  often  praise  ;  but  you 
deserve  more  than  I  can  give.  Never  did  you  utter  unkindness  towards  those 
who  had  dashed  your  cup  of  happiness  to  the  earth,  even  as  it  had  touched 
your  lips.  Never  did  you  suffer  the  breath  of  slander  to  dim  her  memory,  from 
whom  you  had  a  right  to  expect  so  much  ;  for  you  were  unto  her  as  a  dear  and 
tender  child.  I  know  the  heart  has  ties  stronger  than  those  of  kindred,  but  you 
had  claims  from  both  these  sources." 

"  My  dear  Lady  Florence,"  interrupted  Gertrude,  much  affected,  "  you  over- 
rate— I  knew  my  friend  too  well  to  imagine,  even,  that  she  would  forget  me ;  I 
should  have  been  base  if  I  could  for  a  moment  have  believed  it !" 

"  Your  trials  are  now  passed,"  resumed  the  old  lady ;  "  the  wind  of  adver- 
sity separates  the  chaff  from  the  wheat.  You  have  learned  to  value  the  world? s 
friendship.  And  when  I  remember  the  virtues  that  characterised  your  amiable 
and  excellent  parents,  the  words  of  this  holy  book  press  upon  my  memory — '  I 
have  been  young,  and  now  am  old,  yet  saw  I  never  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor 
his  seed  begging  their  bread.'  " 

"  Hang  me !"  said  Mr.  Altern,  after  a  pause,  "  but  it 's  worth  riding  a  steeple- 
chase to  come  in  for  all  this." 

"  It  would  make  a  delightful  tale,  if  well  wrought  up,"  interrupted  Miss  Spin- 
ner, "  quite  good  enough  for  —  perhaps  not  for  Blackwood,  but  for  something 
else,  particularly  if  it  ends,  as  I  presume,  with  a — a — spare  my  blushes !" 

A  sunny  Sabbath  morning  succeeded  this  happy  denouement,  and  the  find- 
ing of  the  will  was  noised  all  over  the  parish.  The  most  busy  agent  on  this 
occasion  was  nurse  Keefe,  who  went  to  first  mass,  expressly  for  the  purpose 
of  telling  how  "  my  young  lady  will  have  her  right,  and  the  bad  breed  '11  be 
forced  to  fly  the  country ;  and  more  will  be  happy  than  me— the  fine  English 
gintleman,  that  many  was  afther,  the  silly  crathurs  !  as  if  it  would  be  any  good 
for  them  to  put  themselves  equal  with  my  young  lady,  with  the  raale  gintleman 
who  had  sich  beautiful  estates,  and  sich  a  power  of  money,  and  a  raale  castle, 
built  on  a  gould  mine  (as  I  hard  tell) ;  and  whin  he  wants,  he  has  nothin'  to  do, 
but  say  to  one  of  of  his  men,  '  James,  go  down  and  bring  me  up  a  bucket  of 
gould ;'  and  to  another,  '  Charles,  my  boy,  go  down  and  bring  me  up  a  bucket 
of  silver.' " 

The  peasantry,  who  most  cordially  hated  "  the  new  man,"  rejoiced  very 
sincerely  at  the  intelligence.  "  Thos.  Dorrington,  Esq."  was  neither  fitted  by 
nature  nor  education  to  occupy  the  station  in  society  to  which  his  wealth  had 
raised  him.  He  was  what  the  poor  termed  "  a  hard  man  ;" — let  the  land  to  the 
highest  bidder,  without  any  regard  to  the  oldest  tenant ;  and  distrained  for  rent 


368  HOSPITALITY. 

whenever  it  was  not  paid  to  the  hour.  Such  a  person  was  not  likely  to  obtain 
popularity;  and  his  low  habits  effectually  prevented  his  associating  with  the 
gentry  on  equal  terms. 

"  Well,  bad  as  he  is,  Mistress  Keefe,"  said  Paddy  Magin,  "  he  didn't  spirit 
away  the  Will,  which  for  sartin  I  thought  he  did,  for  he  always  had  the  look  of 
a  dirty  turn." 

"  Well,  I  set  it  down  to  that  too,  Paddy ;  and  it 's  well  for  him  he  didn't. 
I  '11  stop  myself,  after  grate  mass,  jist  to  see  my  young  lady  go  to  church,  and 
pass  the  mock  people  on  the  road." 

"  Success  to  ye  for  ever,  Mistress  honey  ! — and  I  ?11  gather  the  boys,  and 
we  '11  have  a  shout  for  the  young  lady,  and  a  groan  for  the  by-gones,  that  '11 
shiver  the  mountains  in  no  time ; — it 's  a  pity  it 's  Sunday,  or  we  'd  have  a 
bonfire." 

"  Ay,  Paddy,  we  '11  have  that  same  whin  she 's  set  up  safe  and  sound  in  her 
own  house ;  I  don't  think  they  '11  have  the  face  to  dispute  the  will." 

Paddy  did  "  gather  the  boys,"  and  a  glorious  shout  and  a  deafening  groan 
they  gave. 

"  Thos.  Dorrington,  Esquire,"  affected  at  first  to  disbelieve  the  existence  of 
the  will ;  but  he  secretly  procured  what  money  he  could  from  the  tenants,  and. 
deserting  his  unfortunate  wife,  whom  he  had  long  treated  with  brutal  indiffer- 
ence, fled  to*  America,  and  left  them  to  the  mercy  of  one  who  loved  mercy. 
The  reader  will  easily  imagine  that  every  difficulty  in  the  way  of  a — a — the  event 
at  the  allusion  to  which  Miss  Spinner  blushed,  was,  by  this  fortunate  circum- 
stance removed ;  that  the  good  Gertrude  had  now  no  scruples  to  overcome ;  and 
that  no  barrier  existed  to  the  completion  of  the  perfect  happiness,  to  which  she 
was  so  fully  and  so  justly  entitled : — 

"  Heaven  doth  with  us  as  we  with  torches  do ; 
Not  light  them  for  ourselves ;  for  if  her  virtues 
Had  not  gone  forth  of  her,  't  were  all  alike 
As  if  she  had  them  not." 

Barrytown  never  was  so  full  of  company  as  about  three  months  after  Miss 
Spinner's  box  had  been  found  to  contain  so  valuable  a  parchment ;  "  shake- 
downs" in  every  room ;  open  house,  sheep  and  oxen  roasted  whole,  barrels  of 
ale  and  whiskey,  fiddlers  and  pipers;  Lady  Brilliant  and  suite;  nurse  Keefe, 
deputy  mistress  of  kitchen  ceremonies ;  Miss  Spinner,  in  a  white  satin  hat, 
looped  up  with  roses  a  la  pastorelle,  and  a  real  new  wig ;  Mrs.  Croydon  and 
her  daughters  (poor  spite !)  "  so  particularly  engaged  that  they  could  not  do 
themselves  the  honour  from  which  they  expected  so  much  happiness  —  but 
wished  the  bride  and  bridegroom  more  than  a  thousand  blessings."  Barry- 
town  was  always  noted  for  its  hospitality;  for  the  poor,  as  well  as  the  rich, 
sheltered  under  its  roof,  and  the  generous  master  afforded  relief  to  all  who 
really  wanted  it.  But  when  Gertrude  Raymond  was  married  to  Alfred 
Wortley,  everybody  wondered  where,  even  in  Barrytown,  such  crowds  could 


HOSPITALITY. 


369 


have  been  packed.  Lady  Florence  Barry,  who  had  not  been  outside  her  own 
avenue  gate  for  twenty  years,  accompanied  the  bride ;  and  Mr.  Barry  gave 
her  away.  More  people  could  not  have  been  at  a  priest's  funeral  than  assem- 
bled on  this  memorable  occasion — 

"  When  the  wrong  was  made  right, 
And  the  dark  light," 

as  Miss  Spinner  quoted  it ;  and  the  "  might  and  right"  were  exemplified  for 
many  years  by  the  inhabitants  of  Barrytown  and  Mount  Gertrude  (as  Lady 
Florence  called  Mrs.  Dorrington's  old  residence). 

"  Hospitality, 
No  formality," 

became  the  motto  of  both  houses,  which  were  conducted  on  the  same  plan, 
except,  indeed,  that  the  great  hall  at  Wortley-mount  was  garnished  with  merry, 
laughing  children,  instead  of  dogs,  eagles,  cats,  and  ravens. 


GOOD  SPIRITS  AND  BAD. 

HEN  I  wrote  the  stories  of  which  this  volume  is 
composed,  in  common  with  every  other  writer  con- 
cerning Ireland,  I  had  frequent  occasion  to  notice 
the  habitual  intemperance  of  a  people  naturally  ex- 
citable. This,  more  than  all  their  other  failings, 
rendered  them  liable  to  misrepresentation  :  —  "an 
Irishman  drunk,  and  an  Irishman  sober,"  were  two 
distinct  beings ;  but  the  stranger  had  little  time  to 
inquire  into  the  causes,  when  he  witnessed  the 
effects.  And  though  many  efforts  had  been  made 
to  change  the  bad  spirit  for  the  good — though  Pro- 
fessor Edgar,  in  Belfast,  the  Rev.  George  Carr, 
in  New  Ross,  and  some  excellent  men  in  Cork, 
had  made  strenuous  exertions  to  establish  Tem- 
^  perance  Societies,  nothing,  comparatively,  had  been 
•<  done  to  influence  the  Roman  Catholic  population. 
What  the  Rev.  Mr.  Mathew  has  wrought — his  untiring  perseverance,  his  dis- 
interested efforts  for  the  regeneration  of  his  countrymen,  his  labouring  unceas- 

(370) 


GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD.  371 

ingly  through  evil  report,  which  was  at  last  silenced  by  the  overwhelming 
good  that  became  apparent  throughout  the  country — I  need  not  here  record. 
During  the  last  two  years  the  difficulty  has  been,  not  to  find  an  Irishman  sober, 
but  an  Irishman  intoxicated ;  the  change  is  wonderful,  and  must  be  seen  to  be 
believed.  I  trust  the  good  may  be  permanent,  and  see  every  reason  to  think 
that  such  will  be  the  case.  A  person  who  had  not  visited  Ireland  for  some 
years,  would  not  know  the  country  again ;  indeed,  I  hardly  knew  the  people 
myself,  some  of  whom  I  used  to  lecture  after  my  own  fashion  ;  and  you  may 
lecture  Paddy  for  ever,  without  running  the  risk  of  an  unpleasant  answer;  he  is 
the  most  ready  of  all  people  in  the  world  to  listen  to  advice — he  will  agree  to 
the  letter  with  you,  in. everything  you  state.  "  Bedad,  ma'am,  I  know  that — I 
often  thought  so." — "Ah,  then,  see  that  now! — Sure  it  was  always  the  way, 
and  a  cruel  bad  habit,  leaving  us  worse  than  it  found  us,  and  that 's  no  asy 
matter." — "Oh,  indeed,  it's  as  clear  as  print,  and  as  thrue  as  gospel!"  but 
you  did  not  carry  your  point  a  bit  the  sooner  for  all  this  acquiescence :  the 
next  day,  the  next  hour,  you  might  have  chanced  to  meet  the  same  Paddy 
in  the  most  senseless  state  of  intoxication.  Alas !  it  was  very,  very  sad  !  How 
different  now  !  Paddy's  coat — though  riot  according  to  English  notions  of  com- 
fort— is  a  wonderful  improvement  upon  my  old  acquaintance  ;  his  eye  is  clear ; 
the  yellow  pallor  of  inebriety  has  given  place  to  the  colour  of  a  healthy  state 
of  existence  ;  and  his  step  is  firm,  as  of  a  man  newly  escaped  from  slavery.  I 
have  heard  many,  not  conversant  with  the  country,  wonder  that,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  spread  of  temperance,  the  children  are  not  now  all  well  clothed, 
and  the  cabins  furnished.  They  ought  to  remember,  that  the  pay  of  an  Irish 
labourer,  at  most,  is  but  six  shillings  a  week  ;  that  what  he  drank  formerly 
took  the  absolute  food,  the  potato  and  milk,  from  his  children,  who  now  are 
able  to  have  sufficient  of  this  humble  fare ;  but  a  much  longer  period  must 
elapse  before  the  little  that  can  be  spared  shows  to  the  eye  accustomed  to  the 
luxuries  of  a  higher  station : — a  cup  and  saucer,  a  plate,  a  pidgin,  a  new  stool, 
a  potato-basket — are  valuable  additions  to  the  humble  cottage,  yet  are  hardly 
noticed  by  the  casual  visitor,  who  sees  the  misery  that  is,  but  forgets  that  which 
has  been.  It  is  not  a  little  curious  to  observe,  how  opinions  alter  with  the  times. 
I  remember  when  it  was  considered  a  positive  extravagance  in  the  wife  of  even 
a  decent  tradesman  to  take  a  cup  of  tea ;  though  the  gentry,  who  condemned 
her,  would  not  hesitate  to  order  her  husband  a  glass  of  raw  alcohol,  when  he 
brought  home  his  work.  Indeed,  the  habit  of  giving  the  evil  spirit  to  every 
person  who  called  on  business,  was,  when  I  was  a  child,  so  common,  that 
neglecting  to  do  so  was  considered  a  breach  of  hospitality. 

There  was  a  very  excellent  person  in  Bannow — a  woman  whom  I  never 
think  of  but  with  pleasure;  my  grandmother  used  to  employ  her  in  her  capacity 
of  dress-maker  and  needlewoman,  for,  I  should  think,  pretty  nearly  six  months 
out  of  the  twelve.  She  plied  her  needle  in  my  nursery;  and  I  have  sat  for 
hours  on  my  little  chair,  by  her  side,  looking  into  her  beautiful  face,  and  listen- 
ing, with  intense  pleasure,  to  the  legends  she  used  to  tell,  and  the  exquisite 


372  GOOD    ev-IRITS    AND    BAD. 


ballads  she  used  to  sing,  with  the  most  untiring  patience,  for  my  amusement. 
Poor  Mrs.  Bow  !  She  little  thought  how  she  was  storing  my  mind  with  the 
richest  treasures.  She  had  been  nearly  brought  up  at  Graige  House,  and 
nothing  could  surpass  her  affection  for  all  who  dwelt  within  its  walls.  Her 
manners  and  mind  were  superior  to  her  station  ;  and  yet,  strangely  enough,  she 
had  married  a  man  —  a  smith  —  a  good  and  clever  workman,  as  remarkable  for 
personal  ugliness,  as  she  was  for  personal  beauty;  and  in  proportion  as  her 
temper  was  sweet,  his  was  sour.  But  this  was  not  all  ;  Mr.  Bow  had  a  most 
decided  affection  for  whiskey,  raw  —  or  whiskey-punch  —  it  was  never  "  too  hot 
nor  too  heavy"  for*  him  ;  and  if  his  temper  was  cranky  when  sober,  it  was 
worse  than  cranky  when,  after  his  hard  day's  work,  he  issued  from  his  forge  a 
tipsy  Vulcan,  overthrowing,  in  his  homeward  progress,  all  who  stood  in  his 
way.  This  was  a  heavy  trial  to  his  poor  wife,  who,  in  proportion  as  she  was 
proud  of  her  husband's  uprightness  and  integrity,  so  was  she  grieved  at  his  fits 
of  intoxication.  "  If,"  she  would  exclaim  —  "  if  he  would  only  take  to  the  tea, 
I  'd  die  happy."  Now  Mrs.  Bow  had  a  dog,  a  very  pretty  black  spaniel,  called 
Diver  —  a  creature  of  extraordinary  sagacity,  and  one  of  the  first,  as  well  as 
firmest  advocates  of  Temperance  :  he  might,  had  he  lived  long  enough,  been 
the  favourite  dog  of  Father  Mathew,  and  been  worthy  of  such  a  distinction. 
Diver  hated  "  the  bad  spirit,"  as  his  mistress  always  called  whiskey,  with  his 
entire  heart.  He  would  never  accept  a  caress  from  a  hand  that  had  the  odour 
thereof;  and  the  sound  of  drunken  revelry  excited  him  to  the  bristling  of  hair, 
and  gnashing  of  teeth.  When  his  master  returned  home  in  the  full  possession  of 
his  senses,  Diver  would  manifest  the  greatest  joy  ;  but  when  he  staggered  into  the 
room,  Diver  would  retreat  under  a  chair,  gather  his  lips  from  off  his  white  and 
glistenmg  teeth,  and  look  both  distressed  and  angry.  His  master  was  perfectly 
aware  of  this,  and  did  not  fail  to  bestow  on  his  wife's  favourite,  sundry  epithets 
of  dislike  and  contempt.  Now  this  antipathy  to  the  smell  of  whiskey  could,  per- 
haps, be  accounted  for;  the  dog  had,  probably,  been  ill-used  by  persons  under 
the  influence  of  intoxication  ;  but  the  remarkable  part  of  his  canine  character 
was  —  his  attachment  to  the  teapot.  Although  every  one  declared  "  it  was  a 
shame  for  Mrs.  Bow  to  take  to  the  tea  every  evening,  like  a  lady,  and  her 
husband,  honest  man,  content  with  nothing  but  a  glass  of  whiskey;"  still,  she 
persevered  in  the  almost  hopeless  hope  of  winning  her  spouse  to  partake  of  the 
exhilarating,  yet  harmless,  beverage;  in  this  desire  Diver  apparently  con- 
curred. His  mistress  had  only  to  show  him  the  teapot  to  set  him  bounding  and 
skipping  about  the  room  with  delight  ;  he  would  whirl  round,  wag  his  tail,  and 
finally  dart  forward  in  search  of  his  master,  whom  he  would  endeavour,  by 
every  possible  means  in  his  power,  to  induce  to  return  with  him.  The  smith 
well  knew  what  he  wanted;  and,  at  last,  took  pleasure  in  displaying  his  sagacity 
to  his  neighbours,  making  them  accompany  him  home,  because  then,  indeed,  the 
animal's  joy  knew  no  bounds.  To  see  his  master  and  mistress  seated  at  the 
tea-table,  was  the  summit  of  his  delight  ;  he  would  stretch  himself  along  the 
ground  and  howl  with  pleasure.  Poor  Diver  did  not  live  long  enough  to 


GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD.  373 

witness  the  triumph  of  "  teatotalism ;"  but  he  succeeded  in  making  his  master 
fond  of  tea.  I  hope  this  anecdote  of  the  first  "  teatotallers"  of  my  acquaintance, 
will  not  be  considered  "out  of  place."  Happily,  those  who  sneered  at  the  im- 
possibility of  Irishmen  becoming  sober  members  of  society,  are  convinced  that 
Irish  perseverance  is  worthy  of  respect,  not  ridicule.  The  marvel  to  me  is,  not 
that  some  few  have  broken  "  the  pledge,"  but  that  so  many  have  kept  it.  It 
must  be  remembered,  that  it  was  the  Irishman's  sole  luxury. 

"  Surety  it  is  my  father  and  mother, 
My  Sunday  coat — I  have  no  other ;" 

was  the  "  refrain"  of  one  of  the  many  songs  he  had  heard  from  his  youth  up. 
"  His  father  liked  a  drop,  honest  man,  and  took  it  off  and  on,  and  sure  if  it 
did  harm,  it  was  to  no  one  but  himself,"  was  what  he  had  often  heard.  His 
uncles  were  fine,  free-hearted  fellows,  that  "  shared  a  drop  with  their  neigh- 
bours." His  cousins  "  took  their  glass  like  men."  "  The  piper  never  played  up 
hearty  till  he  had  his  eye  glazed  with  the  whiskey."  "  The  priest  was  a  fine  man, 
entirely,  after  his  riverence  had  the  second  tumbler."  His  landlord,  the  next 
object  of  his  veneration,  "  was  fond  of  his  hot  tumbler,  and  always  a  good  hand 
to  order  it  to  a  poor  man,  wet  or  dry."  No  entertainment  was  given  with- 
out whiskey ;  no  bargain  concluded  until  the  libation  to  the  evil  spirit  was  poured 
forth :  no  account  was  ever  taken  of  the  horrors  produced  by  intoxication. 
"  Ah,  sure,  he  couldn't  help  it — he  wasn't  himself  when  he  struck  the  blow 
— bad  luck  to  it  for  whiskey,  it  does  a  deal  of  harm ;  but  what,  can  a  poor  man 
do? — sure  it 's  the  only  comfort  he  has — the  only  thing  that  puts  the  throuble 
past  him ;  it  takes  the  feel  of  sorrow  from  his  heart,  and  the  sight  of  starvation 
from  before  his  eyes." 

And  yet — the  Irishman  has  had  the  moral  courage  to  relinquish,  and  the 
moral  firmness  to  adhere  to  the  determination  of  giving  up,  as  I  have  said,  his 
only  luxury— and  that,  without  any  of  the  complaining  we,  of  a  better  class, 
should  make  if  we  abandoned  one  of  the  scores  that  we  indulge  in. 

I  look  upon  this  triumph  with  great  admiration.  It  is  impossible  not  to 
respect  those  who  make  great  sacrifices  from  a  desire  to  do  right ;  and  I  am 
sure  what  has  been  effected,  in  the  way  of  self-denial,  by  the  Irish,  in  this 
matter,  proves  that  they  have  not  only  energy,  but  perseverance,  for  anything 
they  undertake.  This  fact  should  be  borne  in  mind  by  all  whose  duty  and  in- 
terest it  is,  to  see  that  such  fine  qualities  are  well  directed. 

I  must  illustrate  my  text  of  "  Good  Spirits  and  Bad,"  by  one  or  two 
stories : — 

"  What  I  'm  thinking  of,  Nelly,  darlin'," — said  Roney  Maher  to  his  poor  pale 
wife — "  what  I  'm  thinking  of,  is  —  what  a  pity  we  were  not  bred  and  born  in 
this  Temperance  Society,  for  then  we  could  follow  it,  you  know,  as  a  thing  of 
course,  without  any  trouble !" 


374  GOOD    SPIRITS    AND   BAD. 

«  But—" 

"  Whisht,  Nelly,  you  've  one  great  fault,  avourneen — you're  always  talking 
dear,  and  won't  listen  to  me.  What  I  was  saying  is,  that  if  we  were  brought 
up  to  the  coffee,  instead  of  the  whiskey,  we'd  have  been  natural  members  of  the 
Temperance  Society ;  as  it  is  now,  agrah !  why  it 's  meat,  drink,  and  clothing, 
as  a  man  may  say !" 

He  paused,  and  Nelly  thought — though,  in  his  present  state,  she  had 
too  much  tenderness  to  tell  her  husband  so  —  that  whiskey  was  a  very  bad 
paymaster. 

"  You'  re  no  judge,  Ellen,"  he  continued,  interpreting  her  thoughts,  "  for  you 
never  took  to  it ;  and,  if  I  had  my  time  to  begin  over  again,  I  never  would 
either ;  but  it 's  too  late  to  change  now — all — too  late  !" 

"  I  've  heard  many  a  wise  man  say,  that  it 's  never  too  late  to  mend,"  ob- 
served Ellen. 

"  Yah !"  he  exclaimed,  almost  fiercely,  — "  who  ever  said  that  was  a 
fool ! " 

"  It  was  the  priest  himself,  then,  Roney,  never  a  one  else ;  and  sure  you 
wouldn't  call  him  that !" 

**  If  I  did  mend,"  he  observed,  "  no  one  would  take  my  word  for  it." 

"  Ay,  dear — but  deeds,  not  words  ;"  and,  having  said  more  than  was  usual  for 
her,  in  the  way  of  reproof,  Ellen  retreated  to  watch  its  effect. 

Roney  Maher  was  a  fine,  likely  boy,  when  he  married  Ellen ;  but  when  this 
little  dialogue  took  place,  he  was  sitting  over  the  embers  of  a  turf  fire,  a  pale, 
emaciated  man,  though  in  the  prime  of  life — a  torn  handkerchief  bound  round 
his  temples,  and  his  favourite  shillalah,  that  he  had  greased  and  seasoned  in 
the  chimney,  and  tended,  with  more  care  than  his  children,  lay  broken  by  his 
side.  He  attempted  to  snatch  it  up  while  his  wife  retreated,  but  his  arm  fell 
powerless,  and  he  uttered  a  groan  so  full  of  pain,  that,  in  a  moment,  she  re- 
turned, and,  with  tearful  eyes,  inquired  "  if  it  was  so  bad  with  him  entirely 
as  that?" 

"  It 's  worse,"  he  answered,  while  the  large  drops  that  stood  upon  his  brow, 
proved  how  much  he  suffered. 

"  It 's  worse  —  the  arm  I  mean  —  than  I  thought ;  I  'm  done  for  a  week,  or, 
may-be,  a  fortnight — and,  Nelly,  the  pain  of  my  arm  is  nothing  to  the  weight 
about  my  heart — now,  don't  be  talking,  for  I  can't  stand  it.  If  I  can't  work 
next  week  nor  this,  and  we  without  money  or  credit — what — what — "  The 
unfortunate  man  glanced  at  his  wife  and  children  —  he  could  not  finish  the 
sentence.  He  had  only  returned,  the  previous  night,  from  having  "  been  out 
upon  a  spree,"  as  it  is  called ;  spending  his  money,  wasting  his  health,  losing 
his  employment — not  thinking  of  those  innocent  children  whom  God  had  given 
him  to  protect;  and  only  returning  to  the  abode  which  his  propensity  had 
rendered  one  of  squalid  wretchedness,  because  he  had  been  disabled  in  a  dis- 
graceful riot. 

When  sober,  Roney's  impulses  were  all  good ;  but  he  was  as  easily,  perhaps 


GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD.  375 

more  easily,  led  away  by  the  bad  than  the  good ;  in  the  present  instance,  he 
continued  talking,  because  he  dared  not  think,  and  it  is  a  fearful  thing  for  a  man 
to  dread  his  own  thoughts.  It  was  a  painful  picture,  to  look  upon  this  well- 
educated  man — he  had  been  an  excellent  tradesman — he  had  been  respected — 
he  had  been  comfortable ;  he  felt  lost,  degraded,  in  pain,  in  sorrow,  and  yet 
he  would  not  confess  it.  Once  or  twice  he  attempted  to  sing  snatches  of  those 
foolish  or  bad  songs,  which  entice  to  intoxication,  but  the  words  "  stuck  in  his 
throat ;"  in  truth,  he  was  too  ill,  either  to  think  or  act, — ashamed  of  the  past, 
yet  endeavouring,  in  vain,  to  convince  himself,  that  he  had  no  right  to  be 
ashamed. 

It  was  evening ;  the  children  crept  round  the  fire,  where  their  mother 
endeavoured  to  heat  half-a-dozen  cold  potatoes  for  their  supper — looking,  with 
hungry  eyes,  upon  the  scanty  feast.  "Daddy's  too  bad  entirely  to  eat  to- 
night," whispered  the  second  boy  to  his  eldest  brother,  while  his  little  thin  blue 
lips  trembled,  half  with  cold,  half  with  hunger ;  "  and  so  we  'II  have  his  share 
as  well  as  our  own!"  and  the  little  shivering  group  devoured  the  potatoes, 
in  imagination,  over  and  over  again  —  poking  them  with  their  lean  fingers, 
and  telling  their  "mammy"  they  were  hot  enough;  —  shocking  that  want 
should  have  taught  them  to  calculate  on  their  parent's  illness  as  a  source  of 
rejoicing !" 

"  Nelly,"  said  her  husband,  at  last — "  Nelly,  I  wish  I  had  a  drop  of  something 
to  warm  me." 

"  Mrs.  Kinsalla  said  she  would  give  me  a  bowl  of  strong  coffee  for  you — 
if  you  would  take  it." 

What  drunkard  does  not  blaspheme  ? 

Roney  swore ;  and,  though  his  lips  were  parched  with  fever,  and  his  head 
throbbed,  declared  he  must  have  just  "  one  little  thimble-full  to  raise  his  heart." 
It  was  in  vain  that  Ellen  remonstrated  and  entreated.  He  did  not  attempt 
violence,  but  he  obliged  his  eldest  boy  to  beg  the  "  thimble-full ;"  and  before 
morning,  the  wretched  man  was  tossing  about  in  all  the  heat  and  irritation 
of  decided  fever.  One  must  have  witnessed  what  fever  is  when  accompanied 
by  such  misery,  to  understand  its  terrors.  It  was  wonderful  how  he  was  sup- 
ported through  it  —  indeed,  his  ravings,  when,  after  a  long,  dreary  time,  the 
fever  subsided,  were  more  torturing  to  poor  Nelly,  than  the  working  of  his 
delirium  had  been. 

"  If,"  he  would  exclaim — "  if  it  wasn't  too  late,  I  'd  take  the  pledge  they  talk 
about,  the  first  minute  I  rise  my  head  from  the  straw ;  but  where  's  the  good 
of  it  now  1 — what  can  I  save  now  ? — nothing — it 's  too  late  !" 

"  It 's  never  too  late,"  Ellen  would  whisper.  "  It 's  never  too  late,"  she 
would  repeat ;  and,  as  if  it  were  a  mocking  echo,  her  husband's  voice  would 
sigh — "  Too  late  ! — too  late !" 

Indeed,  any  who  looked  upon  the  fearful  wreck  of  what  had  been  the  fine, 
manly  form  of  Roney  Maher— stretched  upon  a  bed  of  straw,  with  hardly  any 
covering — saw  his  two  rooms,  now  utterly  destitute  of  every  article  of  furniture 


376  GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD. 

— heard  his  children  begging  in  the  streets  for  a  morsel  of  food — and  observed 
how  the  utmost  industry  of  his  poor  wife  could  hardly  keep  the  rags  together 
that  shrouded  her  bent  form — any  one  almost,  who  saw  these  things,  would  be 
inclined  to  repeat  the  words,  which  have,  unfortunately,  but  too  often  knelled 
over  the  grave  of  good  feelings  and  good  intentions — "  Too  late  ! — too  late !" 
Many  would  have  imagined  that  not  only  had  the  demon  habit,  which  had 
gained  so  frightful  an  ascendancy  over  poor  Roney,  banished  all  chance  of 
reformation,  but  that  there  was  no  escape  from  such  intense  poverty.  I  wish, 
with  all  my  heart,  that  such  persons  would,  instead  of  sitting  down  with  so 
helpless  and  dangerous  a  companion  as  despair,  resolve  upon  two  things :  first 
of  all,  to  trust  in  and  pray  to  God ;  secondly,  to  combat  what  they  foolishly  call 
fate — to  fight  bravely,  and  in  a  good  cause ;  and  sure  am  I,  that  those  who  do, 
will,  sooner  or  later,  achieve  a  victory  ! 

It  is  never  too  late  to  abandon  a  bad  habit,  and  adopt  a  good  one.  In  every 
town  of  Ireland,  Temperance  has  now  its  members,  and  these  members  are  so 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  blessings  of  this  admirable  system,  from  feeling 
its  advantages,  that  they  are  full  of  zeal  in  the  cause,  and,  with  true  Irish 
generosity,  eager  to  enlist  their  friends  and  neighbours — that  they,  too,  may 
partake  of  the  comforts  which  spring  from  Temperance.  The  Irishman  is  not 
selfish ;  he  is  as  ready  to  share  his  cup  of  coffee,  as  he  used  to  be  to  share  his 
glass  of  whiskey. 

One  of  these  generous  members  was  the  Mrs.  Kinsalla,  whose  offer  of  the  bowl 
of  coffee  had  been  rejected  by  Roney  the  night  his  fever  commenced :  she  was 
herself  a  poor  widow,  or,  according  to  the  touching  and  expressive  phraseology 
of  Ireland,  "  a  lone  woman ;"  and,  though  she  had  so  little  to  bestow,  that  many 
would  call  it  nothing,  she  gave  it  with  that  good  will  which  rendered  it 
"  twice  blest ;"  then  she  stirred  up  others  to  give ;  and  often  had  she  kept 
watch  with  her  wretched  neighbour — Ellen,  never  omitting  those  words  of 
gentle  kindness  and  instruction,  which,  perhaps,  at  the  time,  may  seem  to  have 
been  spoken  in  vain;  but  not  so:  for  we  must  bear  in  mind  that,  even  in  the 
good  ground,  the  seed  will  not  spring  the  moment  it  is  sown.  Those  who 
would  effect  a  great  moral  revolution,  must  have  patience :  those  who,  in  their 
families,  seek  to  reform  a  beloved  object  whom  they  love,  despite  his  or  her 
errors ;  or  to  reclaim  a  backslider,  and  teach  that  the  ways  of  peace  are  the 
ways  of  loving-kindness  and  religion,  must  have  patience ;  they  must  be  assured 
that  it  is  never  too  late,  as  all  do  think,  whose  trust  in  God  is  founded  in  the 
belief  of  His  mercy  and  forgiveness. 

Roney  had  been  an  industrious,  and  a  good  workman,  once;  and  Mrs.  Kin- 
salla had  often  thought,  before  the  establishment  of  the  Temperance  Society, 
what  a  blessing  it  would  be,  if  there  were  any  means  of  making  him  an  "  affi- 
davit man;"  but,  as  she  said,  "  there  were  so  many  ways  of  avoiding  an  oath, 
when  a  man's  heart  was  set  to  break  it,  not  to  keep  it,  that  she  could  hardly 
tell  what  to  say  about  it." 

Such  poverty  as  Roney's  must  either  die  beneath  its  infliction,  or  ri5e  above 


GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD.  377 

it.  He  was  now  able  to  sit  in  the  sun  at  his  cabin-door.  His  neighbour,  Mrs. 
Kinsalla,  had  prevailed  on  a  good  lady  to  employ  Ellen  in  the  place  of  a  ser- 
vant who  was  ill ;  and  had  lent  her  clothes,  that  she  might  be  able  to  appear 
decently  "  at  the  big  house."  Every  night  she  was  permitted  to  bring  her 
husband  a  little  broth,  or  some  bread  and  meat;  and  the  poor  fellow  was 
regaining  his  health,  though  his  arms  still  continued  weak.  Their  dwelling, 
however,  remained  without  any  article  of  furniture ;  although  the  rain  used  to 
pour  through  the  roof,  and  the  only  fire  was  made  from  the  scanty  "  bres- 
naugh"  the  children  gathered  from  the  road-side,  they  had  sufficient  food  ;  and, 
though  the  lady  expected  all  she  employed  to  work  hard,  she  paid  them  well, 
and  caused  Ellen's  poor  forlorn  heart  to  leap  with  joy  by  the  gift  of  a  blanket, 
and  a  very  old  suit  of  clothes  for  her  husband.  And  here  let  me  observe  that, 
wherever  man  and  wife  continue  to  exist  together,  there  is  hope,  amounting 
almost  to  a  certainty,  of  better  times,  if  one  stems  the  torrent  of  vice  or  mis- 
management. If  both  go  wrong,  woe,  woe,  to  their  children ! — but  how  often 
is  the  husband  rendered,  as  it  were,  the  salvation  of  the  wife,  and  the  wife  of 
the  husband! 

'"I  have  seen  yer  old  master  to-day,  Honey,"  said  the  widow  Kinsalla  to  her 
neighbour,  "  and  he  was  asking  after  you." 

"  I  'm  obliged  to  him,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  he  said  he  was  sorry  to  see  your  children  in  the  street,  Honey, 
honey." 

"  So  am  I but  you  know  he  was  so  angry  with  me  for  that  last 

scrimage,  that  he  declared  I  should  never  do  another  stroke  of  work  for  him  ;" 
and,  he  added,  "  that  was  a  cruel  saying  for  him  to  lay  out  starvation  for  me 
and  mine,  because  I  was  not  worse  than  the  rest ;  sure,  as  I  said  to  Nelly,  poor 
thing,  and  she  spending  her  strength,  and  striving  for  me  — '  Nelly,'  says  I, 
1  where  's  the  good  of  it,  bringing  me  out  of  the  shades  of  death,  to  send  me 
begging  along  the  road  ? — let  me  die  easy  where  I  am !' " 

"  Well,  but  the  master  will  take  you  back,  Roney — on  one  condition." 

The  blood  mounted  to  the  poor  man's  face — and  then  he  became  faint,  and 
leaned  back  against  the  wall.  Three  times  he  had  been  dismissed  from  his 
employment  for  drunkenness,  and  his  master  had  never  been  known  to  receive 
a  man  back  after  three  dismissals.  Mrs.  Kinsalla  gave  him  a  cup  of  water,  and 
then  continued — "  The  master  told  me,  himself,  he  'd  take  you  back,  Roney,  on 
one  condition." 

"  I'll  give  my  oath  against  the  whiskey — barring — "  he  began. 

"  There  need  be  no  swearing,  but  there  must  be  no  barring.  I  '11  tell  you 
the  rights  of  it— if  you'll  listen  to  me  in  earnest,"  said  the  widow.  "  The  mas- 
ter, you  see,  called  all  his  men  together,  and  set  down  fair  before  them,  the 
state  they  were  in  from  the  indulgence  in  spirits.  He  drew  a  picture,  Roney ; 
a  young  man  in  his  prime,  full  of  life,  with  a  fair  character;  his  young  wife  by 
his  side ;  his  child  on  his  knee ;  earning  from  fifteen  to  eighteen  shillings  or  a 
pound  a  week;  able  to  have  his  Sunday  dinner  in  comfort;  well  to  do,  in 
48 


378  GOOD   SPIRITS    AND   BAD. 

every  way ;  at  first  he  drinks,  may-be,  a  glass  with  a  friend — and  that  leads  to 
another,  and  another,  until  work  is  neglected,  home  is  abandoned,  a  quarrelsome 
spirit  grows  out  of  the  high  spirit  which  is  no  shame — and,  in  a  very  short  time, 
you  lose  all  trace  of  the  man  in  the  degraded  drunkard.  Poverty  wraps  her 
rags  around  him ;  pallid  want,  loathsome  disease,  a  jail,  and  a  bedless  death, 
close  the  scene.  '  But,'  said  the  master,  « this  is  not  all ;  the  sneer  and  the 
reproach  have  gone  over  the  world  against  us,  and  an  Irishman  is  held  up  as  a 
degraded  man — as  a  half-civilized  savage,  to  be  spurned,  and  laughed  at — 
because ' " 

"  I  knew,"  groaned  Roney — "  because  he  makes  himself  a  reproach.  Mrs. 
Kinsalla,  I  knew  you  were  a  well-reared  and  a  well-learned  woman,  but  you 
give  that  to  the  life  ;  it 's  all  true." 

"  He  spoke,"  she  continued,  "  of  those  amongst  his  own  workmen,  who  had 
fallen  by  intoxication ;  he  said,  if  poverty  had  slain  its  thousands,  whiskey  had 
slain  its  tens  of  thousands ;  poverty  did  not  always  lead  to  drunkenness,  but 
drunkenness  always  led  to  poverty ;  he  spoke  of  you,  my  poor  man,  as  being 
one  whom  he  had  respected." 

"Did  he  say  that,  indeed?" 

«  He  did—" 

"  God  bless  him  for  that,  any  way.  I  thought  him  a  hard  man ;  but  God 
bless  him  for  remembering  old  times." 

"  And  then  he  said  how  you  had  fallen — " 

"  The  world  knows  that,  without  his  telling  it,"  interrupted  Roney. 

"  It  does,  agra  ! — but  listen !  He  told  of  one  who  was  as  low  as  you  are 
now,  and  lower,  for  the  Lord  took  from  him  the  young  wife,  who  died,  broken- 
hearted, in  the  sight  of  his  eyes;  and  yet  it  was  not  too  late  for  him  to  be 
restored,  and  able  to  lead  others  from  the  way  that  led  him  to  destruction. 

"  He  touched  the  hearts  of  them  all ;  he  laid  before  them,  how,  if  they  looked 
back  to  what  they  had  done  when  sober  to  what  they  had  done  when  the  con- 
trary, they  would  see  the  difference;  and  then,  my  dear,  he  showed  them  other 
things;  he  laid  it  down  as  plain  as  print,  how  all  the  badness  that  has  been 
done  in  the  country,  sprang  out  of  the  whiskey — the  faction-fights,  flying  in  the 
face  of  that  God  who  tells  us  to  love  each  other — the  oaths,  black  and  bitter, 
dividing  Irishmen,  who  ought  to  be  united  in  all  things  that  lead  to  the  peace 
and  honour  of  their  country,  into  parties,  staining  hands  with  blood,  that  would 
have  gone,  spotless,  to  honourable  graves,  but  for  its  excitement. 

"  Then  he  said  how  the  foes  of  Ireland  would  sneer  and  scorn,  if  she  became 
a  backslider  from  Temperance  ;  and  how  her  friends  would  rejoice,  if  the  people 
kept  true  to  their  pledge ; — how  every  man  could  prove  himself  a  patriot,  a  rale 
patriot,  by  showing  to  the  world  an  Irishman,  steadfast,  sober,  and  industrious, 
with  a  cooler  head,  and  warmer  heart  than  ever  beat  in  any  but  an  Irishman's 
bosom  ! — He  showed,  you  see,  how  Temperance  was  the  heart's  core  of  ould  Ire- 
land's glory,  and  said  a  deal  more  than  I  can  repeat  about  her  peace,  and 
verdure,  and  prosperity ;  and  then  he  drew  out  a  picture  of  a  reformed  man — 


GOOD   SPIRITS    AND    BAD.  379 

his  home  with  all  the  little  bits  of  things  comfortable  about  him ;  his  smiling 
wife — his  innocent  babies ;  and,  knowing  him  so  well,  Roney,  I  made  my  cour- 
tesy— and,  '  sir,'  says  I,  '  if  you  please,  will  that  come  about  to  every  one  who 
becomes  a  true  member  of  the  Total  Abstinence  Society  ?'  '  I  '11  go  bail  for  it,' 
says  he,  « though  surely  you  don't  want  it ;  I  never  saw  you  overtaken,  Mrs. 
Kinsalla.'  '  God  forbid,  and  thank  your  honour,'  says  I ;  '  but  you  want  every 
one  to  be  a  member  T  says  I.  '  From  my  heart,  for  his  own  good,  and  the 
honour  of  old  Ireland,  I  do,'  he  says. 

"  *  Then,  sir,'  I  went  on, '  there 's  Roney  Maher,  sir — and  if  he  takes  and  is 
true  to  the  pledge,  sir — '  and  I  watched  to  see  if  the  good-humoured  twist  was 
on  his  mouth,  « he  '11  be  fit  for  work  next  week,  sir;  and  the  evil  spirit  is  out  of 
him  so  long  now,  and — '  '  That's  enough,'  he  says, '  bring  him  here  to-morrow, 
when  all  who  wish  to  remain  in  my  employ  will  take  the  resolution,  and  I  '11  try 
him  again.'  " 

Ellen  had  entered,  unperceived  by  her  husband,  and  flung  herself  on  her 
knees  by  his  side. 

The  appeal  was  unnecessary ;  sorrow  softens  men's  hearts ;  he  pressed  her 
to  his  bosom,  while  tears  coursed  each  other  down  the  furrows  of  his  pallid 
cheeks. 

"  Ellen,  mavourneen ! — Ellen,  aroon  !"  he  whispered — "  Nelly,  agra !  a  coushla 
machree  ! — you  were  right — « It  is  never  too  late.' " 

*  *  *  *  #  #  *  *  *_* 

Nineteen  months  have  elapsed  since  Roney,  trusting  not  in  his  own  strength, 
entered  on  a  new  course  of  life.  Having  learned  to  distrust  himself,  he  was 
certain  to  triumph. 

You  could  hardly  believe  that  the  Roney  Maher  of  the  past  and  the  Roney 
Maher  of  the  present  are  the  same ;  the  pale,  shivering,  sullen,  and  red-eyed 
drunkard  changed  by  the  blessing — the  one  blessing  which  every  human  being 
can  make  his  own — the  blessing  of  Temperance ;  changed — I  repeat  it  most 
joyfully — into  a  hale  and  happy,  open  and  clear-eyed  man;  his  voice  steady; 
his  step  firm  ;  working  from  Monday  morning  until  Saturday  night ;  the  source 
of  humble,  but  certain,  comfort  to  his  family ;  standing  before  God,  and  his 
country,  in  the  dignity  of  manhood,  undebased  by  vice. 

It  is  Sunday ;  his  wife  has  taken  her  two  eldest  children  to  early  mass,  that 
she  may  return  in  time  to  prepare  his  dinner ;  the  little  lads,  stout,  clean,  and 
ruddy-faced,  are  watching  to  call  to  their  mother,  so  that  she  may  know  the 
moment  he,  her  reformed  husband,  appears  in  sight.  What  there  is  in  the  cot- 
tage betokens  care,  and  that  sort  of  Irish  comfort  which  is  easily  satisfied ; 
there  is,  moreover,  a  cloth  on  the  table ;  a  cunning-looking  dog  is  eyeing  the 
steam  of  something  more  savoury  than  mere  potatoes,  which  ascends  the  chim- 
ney ;  and  the  assured  calmness  of  Ellen's  face  proves  that  her  heart  is  at  ease. 
The  boys  are  the  same  that,  hardly  two  years  ago,  were  compelled,  by  cruel 
starvation,  to  exult — poor  children!  that  their  father's  being  too  ill  to  eat, 
insured  them  another  potato. 


380  GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD. 

"  Hurroo,  mammy — there 's  daddy !"  exclaimed  the  eldest 

"  Oh !  mammy,  his  new  beaver  shines  grand  in  the  sun  !"  shouts  his  brother  ; 
•'  and  there 's  widdy  Kinsalla  along  with  him,  but  he 's  carrying  little  Nancy ; 
now  he  lets  her  down,  and  the  darling  is  running,  for  he 's  taken  off  her  Sunday 
shoes  to  ease  her  dawshy  feet;  and  oh!  mammy,  honey,  there's  the  mastei 
himself  shaking  hands  with  father  before  the  people !"  This  triumphant  an- 
nouncement brought  Ellen  to  the  door;  she  shaded  her  eyes  from  the  sun  with 
her  hand,  and,  having  seen  what  made  her  heart  beat  very  rapidly  in  her  faith- 
ful and  gentle  bosom,  she  wiped  them,  more  than  once,  with  the  corner  of  her 
apron.  "  What  ails  ye,  mammy,  honey  ? — sure  there 's  no  trouble  over  you 
now  !"  said  the  eldest  boy,  climbing  to  her  neck,  and  pouting  his  lips,  not  blue, 
but  cherry-red,  to  meet  his  mother's  kiss. 

"  I  hope  daddy  will  be  very  hungry,"  he  continued,  "  and  Mrs.  Kinsalla,  for 
even  if  the  schoolmaster  came  in,  we  've  enough  dinner  for  them  all." 

«  Say— thank  God,  my  child,"  said  Ellen.  "  Thank  God,"  repeated  the  boy. 
"  And  shall  I  say  what  you  do  be  always  saying  as  well  ?"  "  What 's  that, 
alanna?"  "Thank  God  and  the  Temperance! — ah!  and  something  else." 
"What ?"  inquired  his  mother.  "  What ? — why,  that  it V  never  too  late" 

The  friends  of  Temperance  have  so  great  a  dread  of  the  people  taking  what 
are  called  "  Temperance  Cordials,"  that  I  am  induced  to  illustrate  the  subject 
by  relating  an  incident — in  the  humble  but  fervent  hope  of  its  being  useful  in 
preventing  persons  from  laying  down  one  bad  habit,  only  to  take  up  another. 

"  WeH,"  said  Andrew  Furlong  to  James  Lacey,  "  that  ginger  cordial,  of  all 
things  I  ever  tasted,  is  the  'nicest  and  warmest.  It 's  beautiful  stuff;  and  so 
cheap." 

"  What  good  does  it  do  ye,  Andrew  ?  and  what  want  have  you  of  it  ?"  in- 
quired James  Lacey. 

"  What  good  does  it  do  me  ?"  repeated  Andrew,  rubbing  his  forehead,  in  a 
manner  that  showed  he  was  perplexed  by  the  question,  "  why,  no  great  good,  to 
be  sure,  and  I  can't  say  I  've  any  want  of  it ;  for,  since  I  became  a  member  of 
the  '  Total  Abstinence  Society,'  I've  lost  the  megrim  in  my  head,  and  the  weak- 
ness I  used  to  have  about  my  heart.  I  'm  as  strong  and  hearty  in  myself  as 
any  one  can  be,  God  be  praised  !  And  sure,  James,  neither  of  us  could  turn 
out  in  such  a  coat  as  this,  this  time  twelvemonth." 

"And  that's  true,"  replied  James;  "but  we  must  remember  that  if  leaving 
off  whiskey  enables  us  to  show  a  good  habit,  taking  to  '  ginger  cordial,'  or  am  - 
thing  of  that  kind,  will  soon  wear  a  hole  in  it." 

"  You  are  always  fond  of  your  fun.     How  can  you  prove  that  ?" 

"  Easy  enough,"  said  James.  "  Intoxication  was  the  worst  part  of  a 
whiskey-drinking  habit ;  but  it  was  not  the  only  bad  part — it  spent  TIME,  and  it 
spent  what  well-managed  time  always  gives,  MONEY.  Now  though  they  do  say 
— mind,  I  'm  not  quite  sure  about  it,  for  they  may  put  things  in  it  they  don't  own 
to,  and  your  eyes  look  brighter,  and  your  cheek  more  flushed,  than  if  you  had 


GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD.  381 

been  drinking  nothing  stronger  than  milk  or  water — but  they  do  say  that  ginger 
cordials,  and  all  kinds  of  cordials,  do  not  intoxicate.  I  will  grant  this ;  but  you 
cannot  deny  that  they  waste  both  time  and  money." 

"Oh,  bother!"  exclaimed  Andrew,  "I  only  went  with  two  or  three  other 
boys  to  have  a  glass,  and  I  don't  think  we  spent  more  than  half  an  hour. 
There 's  no  great  harm  in  laying  out  a  penny  or  two-pence  that  way,  now  and 
again." 

"  Half  an  hour  even,  breaks  a  day,"  said  James,  "  and,  what  is  worse,  it 
unsettles  the  mind  for  work ;  and  we  ought  to  be  very  careful  of  any  return  to 
the  old  habit,  that  has  destroyed  many  of  us,  body  and  soul,  and  made  the  name 
of  an  Irishman  a  by-word  and  a  reproach,  instead  of  a  glory  and  an  honour. 
A  penny,  Andrew,  breaks  the  silver  shilling  into  coppers  ;  and  two-pence  will 
buy  half  a  stone  of  potatoes — that 's  a  consideration.  If  we  don't  manage  to 
keep  things  comfortable  at  home,  the  women  won't  have  the  heart  to  mend  the 
coat.  Not,"  added  James,  with  a  sly  smile,  "  that  I  can  deny  having  taken  to 
TEMPERANCE  CORDIALS  myself." 

"  You !"  shouted  Andrew,  "  you !  a  pretty  fellow  you  are  to  be  blaming  me, 
and  forced  to  confess  you  have  taken  to  them  yourself;  but  I  suppose  they'll 
wear  no  hole  in  your  coat  ?  Oh,  no,  you  are  such  a  good  manager  !" 

"  Indeed,"  answered  James,  "  I  was  anything  but  a  good  manager,  eighteen 
months  ago :  as  you  well  know,  I  was  in  rags,  never  at  my  work  of  a  Monday, 
and  seldom  on  a  Tuesday.  My  poor  wife,  my  gentle,  patient  Mary,  often  bore 
hard  words,  and,  though  she  will  not  own  it,  I  fear  still  harder  blows,  when  I 
had  driven  away  my  senses.  My  children  were  pale,  half-starved,  naked  crea- 
tures, disputing  a  potato  with  the  pig  my  wife  tried  to  keep  to  pay  the  rent, 
well  knowing  I  would  never  do  it.  Now " 

"  But  the  cordial,  my  boy !"  interrupted  Andrew,  "  the  cordial !  —  sure  I 
believe  every  word  of  what  you  've  been  telling  me  is  as  true  as  gospel ;  ain't 
there  hundreds,  ay,  thousands,  at  this  moment,  on  Ireland's  blessed  ground,  that 
can  tell  the  same  story  1  But  the  cordial ! — and  to  think  of  your  never  owning 
it  before:  is  it  ginger,  or  aniseed,  or  peppermint?" 

"  None  of  these — and  yet  it's  the  rale  thing,  my  boy." 

"  Well,  then,"  persisted  Andrew,  "  let's  have  a  drop  of  it;  you  're  not  going, 
I  'm  sure,  to  drink  by  yourself — and  as  I've  broke  the  afternoon " 

A  heavy  shadow  passed  over  James's  face,  for  he  saw  that  there  must  have  been 
something  hotter  than  ginger  in  the  "  Temperance  Cordial,"  as  it  is  falsely  called, 
that  Andrew  had  taken ;  .else  he  would  have  endeavoured  to  redeem  lost  time, 
not  to  waste  more ;  and  he  thought  how  much  better  the  REAL  Temperance 
Cordial  was,  that,  instead  of  exciting  the  brain,  only  warms  the  heart. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  after  a  pause,  "  I  must  go  and  finish  what  I  was  about ;  but 
this  evening,  at  seven  o'clock,  meet  me  at  the  end  of  our  lane,  and  then  I  '11  be 
very  happy  of  your  company." 

Andrew  was  sorely  puzzled  to  discover  what  James's  cordial  could  be,  and 


382  GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD. 

was  forced  to  confess  to  himself,  he  hoped  it  would  be  different  from  what  lie 
had  taken  that  afternoon,  which  certainly  made  him  feel  confused  and  inactive. 

At  the  appointed  hour  the  friends  met  in  the  lane. 

"  Which  way  do  we  go  ?"  inquired  Andrew. 

"  Home,"  was  James's  brief  reply. 

"  Oh,  you  take  it  at  home  ?"  said  Andrew. 

"  I  make  it  at  home,"  answered  James. 

"  Well,"  observed  Andrew,  "  that 's  very  good  of  the  woman  that  owns  ye. 
Now,  mine  takes  on  so  about  a  drop  of  anything,  that  she 's  as  hard  almost  on 
the  cordials  as  she  used  to  be  on  the  whiskey." 

"  My  Mary  helps  to  make  mine,"  observed  James. 

"And  do  you  bottle  it,  or  keep  it  on  draught?"  inquired  Andrew,  very  much 
interested  in  the  "  cordial"  question. 

James  laughed  very  heartily  at  this,  and  answered — 

"Oh,  I  keep  mine  on  draught — always  on  draught;  there's  nothing  like  hav- 
ing plenty  of  a  good  thing,  so  I  keep  mine  always  on  draught :"  and  then  James 
laughed  again,  and  heartily. 

James's  cottage  door  was  open,  and  as  they  approached  it,  they  saw  a  good 
deal  of  what  was  going  forward  within.  A  square  table  placed  in  the  centre 
of  the  little  kitchen,  was  covered  by  a  clean  white  cloth— knives,  forks,  and 
plates  for  the  whole  family,  were  ranged  upon  it  in  excellent  order ;  the  teapot 
stood,  triumphant,  in  the  centre,— the  hearth  had  been  swept,  the  house  was 
clean,  the  children  rosy,  well-dressed,  and  all  doing  something.  "  Mary,"  whom 
her  husband  had  characterized  as  "  the  patient,"  was  busy  and  bustling,  in  the 
very  act  of  adding  to  the  tea,  which  was  steaming  on  the  table  with  the  sub- 
stantial accompaniments  of  fried  eggs  and  bacon,  and  a  large  dish  of  potatoes. 
When  the  children  saw  their  father,  they  ran  to  meet  him  with  a  great  shout, 
and  clung  around  to  tell  him  all  they  had  done  that  day.  The  eldest  girl  de- 
clared she  had  achieved  the  heel  of  a  stocking;  one  boy  wanted  his  father  to 
come  and  see  how  straight  he  had  planted  the  cabbages ;  while  another 
avowed  his  proficiency  in  addition,  and  volunteered  to  do  a  sum  instanter  upon 
a  slate  he  had  just  cleaned.  Happiness  in  a  cottage  seems  always  more  real 
than  it  does  in  a  gorgeous  dwelling.  It  is  not  wasted  in  large  rooms — it  is  con- 
centrated— a  great  deal  of  love  in  a  small  space — a  great,  great  deal  of  joy 
and  hope  within  narrow  walls,  and  compressed  as  it  were,  by  a  low  roof.  Is  it 
not  a  blessed  thing  that  the  most  moderate  means  become  enlarged  by  the 
affections  ? — that  the  love  of  a  peasant,  within  his  sphere,  is  as  deep,  as  fervent, 
as  true,  as  lasting,  as  sweet,  as  the  love  of  a  prince  ? — that  all  our  best  and 
purest  affections  will  grow  and  expand  in  the  poorest  worldly  soil  ? — and  that 
we  need  not  be  rich  to  be  happy  ?  James  felt  all  this  and  more,  when  he  entered 
his  cottage,  and  was  thankful  to  God  who  had  opened  his  eyes,  and  taught  him 
what  a  number  of  this  world's  gifts  were  within  his  humble  reach,  to  be  en- 
joyed without  sin.  He  stood  a  poor  but  happy  father— within  the  sacred 


GOOD    SPIRITS    AND    BAD.  383 

temple  of  his  home ;  and  Andrew  had  the  warm  heart  of  an  Irishman  beating 
in  his  bosom,  and  consequently  shared  his  joy. 

"  I  told  you,"  said  James,  "  I  had  the  true  Temperance  Cordial  at  home.  Do 
you  not  see  it  in  the  simple  prosperity  by  which,  owing  to  the  blessings  of  tem- 
perance, I  am  surrounded  ?  Do  you  not  see  it  in  the  rosy  cheeks  of  my  chil- 
dren— in  the  smiling  eyes  of  my  wife  ?  Did  I  not  say  truly  that  she  helped  to 
make  it  ?  Is  not  this  a  true  cordial  1"  he  continued,  while  Us  own  eyes 
glistened  with  manly  tears ;  "  is  not  the  prosperity  of  this  cottage  a  true  Tem- 
perance Cordial  ? — and  is  it  not  always  on  draught,  flowing  from  an  ever-filling 
fountain?  Am  I  not  right,  Andrew;  and  will  you  not  forthwith  take  my 
receipt  and  make  it  for  yourself !  You  will  never  wish  for  any  other ;  it  is 
\varmer  than  ginger  and  sweeter  than  aniseed.  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with 
rne,  that  a  loving  wife,  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  humble  comforts  which  an  in- 
dustrious, sober  husband  can  bestow,  smiling,  healthy,  well-clad  children,  and  a 
clean  cabin,  where  the  fear  of  God  banishes  all  other  fears,  make 

THE   TRUE   TEMPERANCE   CORDIAL." 


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